A Song of Fate and Blood
by The Almighty Afroduck
Summary: Broken and defeated, Guts dies in Elfhelm, surrounded by friends and regret. Fate, however, is not done with Guts, and instead sends him away. In Westeros's Winterfell, perhaps he can finally have a semblance of a normal life. But, in a land oozing with magic, and remnants of a past life trailing him, he must decide whether he'll continue within the current, or leap from the river.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: I have to admit, I hope no one from my other stories is reading this. Sorry for the wait, this year is complicated and will continue to be complicated, but I'm trying to write here and there.**

**Now, as for the few of you that may read this, I figured there are enough parallels between Game of Thrones and Berserk to make a good fic work (just need to make sure the execution is right). An important note is that for the Game of Thrones world, the story will be between the shows (GoT) and the books (ASOIAF). The show ending was mediocre at best, so I can't and won't faithfully stick to it, and the books have been on hiatus for about nine years now. Similarly, Berserk is based entirely on the manga. That being said, I took a good amount of time to think up some fancasting as to who could play who, since it's being brought to the 'real world' of GoT, where the show visuals take precedent.**

**The idea for the story came to mind after two things: I only just started reading Berserk and read all 360 chapters in the span of two weeks, and somewhat enjoyed the thought of Guts in the ASOIAF world in a way another author wrote it (granted, the story will take a far different approach). I think there's plenty of potential in this that hasn't been exploited (hell, there's too much potential in Berserk that isn't being recognized), and this should be a relatively long fic. Without spoiling too much, it'll be through Guts's new childhood into teenage years and finally into adulthood, which will be the time where the show actually begins. All I can say is, don't expect too much from this chapter because it's the prologue. The next one should be longer, and you'll have a better idea of how it'll work.**

**A Change of Authors**

The world was cold, and it only grew colder. A black storm of a life flashed through Guts mind, each clap of lighting bringing a tell-tale cut and scar of a time full of misery. There was a frostiness that infected his memories, a weakened eye with which to view all he had lived through without hate and fury to bring him warmth. Shisu's broken body, Donovan's depravity, Gambino's betrayal, _the Eclipse…_ he remembered hearing from Schierke that just as the body could be inflicted wounds, the soul could also be maimed. In that case, he was bleeding out in body and mind. It had been a moment of weakness, one damn time he'd let his guard down in Elfhelm. He'd taken off the armor for Casca's sake, to try a third and final time to see if she could handle the sight of him. _Maybe it's the armor that reminds her of the Eclipse, you should try going without it, _echoed Schierke in his mind. He'd been unwilling, but for Casca… he'd gone through hell and back for, he could survive without his armor.

Then the Apostles came, as they always did. It was a complex fight. The attack force sent by Femto would have been formidable enough to level a whole army. But then, in Elfhelm, all the creatures and mages and elves fought formidably against the band of demons. They were spared from the God Hand itself, but Nosferatu Zodd led them in the place of Griffith. He had been healthy by then, but being away from his dangerous fetish while simultaneously protecting an unstable Casca had proved impossible. He supposed it was his own fault. It was ironic, in fact. Having dreamt of Chitch a few days prior, of times where he asked himself why he kept going, he realized that Casca's horror had brought him to his knees in a way a thousand living nightmares couldn't. The agony had been exploited by Zodd, who used his one good horn to impale him through the abdomen.

Dying had been painful work, a gruesome due. Fate had finally demanded his body, his Brand of Sacrifice glowing at finally fulfilling its purpose. The Skull Knight stopped Zodd from giving the finishing blow, and the elf queen managed to trap them all in an area protected by the Four. Zodd left with fearsome burns, and the rest had been annihilated by the light of the entities. Not that it mattered, not to Guts anyways. He'd failed. He turned on Griffith, which led him into the metamorphosis to become the abomination that was Femto. He failed Casca, who was violated in front of him, only for him to abandon her for two years to sate his fury and run from his pain. He failed her again, after a long, painful journey to Elfhelm proved the Skull Knight's words to be true. _There's no guarantee for your wish to be her wish._

He was surrounded, many with tears in their eyes, the others only slightly more composed. It was more than he had expected, at least. Serpico held Farnese, who buried her face in his chest. Roderick had his hands on his abdomen, trying to keep the blood from spurting out while Jill did her best to help him. Schierke tried to speak, a spell, no doubt, but failed to keep her words from becoming sobs. Isidro was silent for once, biting his bottom lip hard enough to let out two red currents to match the ones leaking from his eyes. Puck and Ivalera were buzzing frantically, bodies soaked in his gore, trying to use all of their dust to save him. Farther away, Azan was covering Isma's eyes, presumably to spare her from the gruesome sight. The elf queen flew above them, face sad and resigned. In the distance, he could see the shadow of his foreboding companion by Fate. Only Casca was nowhere to be seen. That hurt the most.

"_Guts, GUTS. Can you hear me?! Please tell me you can hear me." _When he opened his eyes again, he realized he wasn't seeing too much out of the physical world anymore. He was floating now, but still bleeding in his astral form. Schierke floated over to him to hug him. He grimaced. Even his soul had a hard time finding the strength to speak. _"…Hear ya loud and clear Schierke. Don't worry, everything's gonna be fine."_

"_No, NO! It's NOT fine! It's not FAIR! I've already lost Mistress, to lose you too after everything we've been through… I can't, please." _Her tears were warm in the iciness of his spirit. He placed his hand on her head, caressing it softly. He looked in front of him to find the Beast glaring at him. It was the largest and most hateful he'd seen it, and yet, he felt nothing. _**You failed. You're weak. You're disgusting. You're worthless.**_Its words were brief, but carried more venom than they had with every one of his possessions. Guts watched it turn around and walk away, head down in defeat. For all its size, it looked malnourished, nothing more than fur on bones. That too, he supposed was fitting. He shook his head. The beast didn't matter, not right now. _"Schierke… I don't have much left, not until all the damned come to drag me to hell. Life isn't fair, and this was a long time coming. Hell, if anything, I'm surprised I've made it this far. I trust you, all of you. I know you can keep moving without me. Just… please take care of Casca. It's all I ask."_

She looked up at him. The pain was unmistakable, but there was anger that latched onto her expression as opposed to the purity of mourning. _"How can you SAY that, Guts?! You deserve so much better than this, than what you've had! I… we'll take care of Casca, I promise. And I don't know how well she's doing it, but Queen Danan is working on your Brand. She can't erase it, not completely, but she may be able to hinder it enough for your soul to find someplace it can rest. It's… it's the best we could do. I'm sorry."_

"_Schierke, it's fine. I'm fine. You need to quit worryin' so damn much. Like I said, this is more than I deserve, so if I don't go to hell, that's fine by me. If I do… well, the day Griffith dies, at least I'll be there to drag him down with me, so I'll still get something either ways. I… thank you, all of you. I didn't think I could live like this again."_ Schierke sobbed loudly into him, holding on as tight as she could. Guts smiled. _Griffith… I can't get you, not anymore. But they can, and they will. Just you wait._ He felt something pull him from Schierke, from himself. His body was starting to soar, and only Schierke and the elves turned upwards to see him. _Well, this is it. My days of murdering are done, then. Pippin, Judeau… I'm coming._ He kept getting lighter and lighter, all senses leaving him. It was then he heard the galloping, high up in the skies. He heard the single swipe of a sword, and his soul was sent away strangely, unnaturally. In his mind, he laughed. _I came into this world unnaturally, of course I'd leave it the same way._

**Author's Notes: The only thing I'm not so confident about is Guts's death, considering the long list of impossible events he's survived. The only real reason I would think this is possible is because I made it so Guts would lose the will to live. His rage carried him for most his life, and finally it was replaced by the determination to save Casca, only for him to visualize her as 'unsaveable' and for him to see himself as the root of her pain. In other words, the Apostle army (and Zodd) caught Guts without his armor and, more importantly, without his will to live (which kept him going past every trauma since his childhood). Some of you may call bullshit on me, and that may be the case, but hey, this is the only way I could see the story happening. All of that said and done, I hope you enjoyed this preview, and you'll follow on in the next chapter. (Bonus points to whomever can guess why this chapter is named the way it is.)**

**The Almighty Afroduck,**

**All Hail**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: This was much faster than I expected an update to come out, but my inspiration was on a role. The chapter is still relatively short, but it's now at least two and a half times longer than the last one. First chapter should be short still, especially in a story with much build up. To get into the story a little more (without spoiling too much), there will be deviations from the main GoT/ASOIAF storyline (more than because it's in the middle of the shows and the books, it's because Guts has the tendency of changing the whole of making ripples in destiny). Will he be the only character from Berserk to make an appearance. No, that'd be a waste. Now the way others will be incorporated and how many will be incorporated is what only time will tell. However, you'll have an answer within a few short episodes of something that should help you get an idea of what's in the story and what's not. Now, the only thing is, Guts's name can't be Guts in this story 'cause, you know, he won't have the same extraordinary circumstances in rebirth this time around (and he won't be raised by an asshole like Gambino). The name I chose might be cheeky, but I'm sticking by it (and I promise you, this story is only a crossover between Berserk and A Song of Ice and Fire, not something more). Also, it'll make sense by the next episode, when I give you the 'casting options' for this crossover. Now, without further ado, enjoy the first chapter. **

**Winterfell's Brood**

The halls were hectic at Winterfell, the Noble Wolf was storming through them. It wasn't long before Rickard Stark entered his lady wife's birthing chambers. By happenstance, Lyarra's sister Branda and her good-brother Harrold Rogers had come visiting the North. It had been a great relief to Rickard Stark that his family had visited, so as to not leave little Bran and Ned with only servants. He loved them greatly, but with the eldest at three and the second at two years of age, he would not want them to see their mother's spirit twisted in the agony of birthing. In a few years mayhap, when they could witness their first execution, they might bear through their mother's pain. Until then, he wanted his pups safe and happy with the event already done.

Hearing his wife's screaming brought him to a run. By the time he reached it, he could see the nursing bed red and crimson with blood. Rickard paled. He'd been with Lyarra through every birth, and none looked as horrible as her third. He didn't think for a moment before jumping to her side. The nurses tried to tell him something, but one look of his and they were silenced immediately. His wife, tearful and delirious, looked at him and smiled. He held her hand and smiled back. _"You came, Rick."_

"How could I not, Ly? I'm by your side now and forever, else the Old Gods see me hung from a Weirwood." That made her laugh, and Rickard smiled in relief. It crumbled away when her face contorted into one of agony, the screams born in her throat echoing out her mouth like damned spirits released from a tomb. _She's never screamed like this. She's never bled like this. She can't… no, she's a Stark, she will NOT die from this. She is strong._ But all his faith in those words faded the more blood pooled about her legs. His face contorted by the anger and fear possessing him. _"DO SOMETHING. CAN YOU NOT SEE MY WIFE BLEEDING?"_

"W-we're trying, my lord. We cannot do more until she gives birth." He grit his teeth, putting his other hand by Lyarra's face. Tears threatened to well up in his eyes, but he drove them back. _I must be strong for her, for me. She cannot see weakness now, not in her time of need._ "Ly, my love, I know you're in pain, Hells, _agony_ right now, but you need to _push._ Push now, and push hard Ly, it will all be over soon."

"_AND DO YOU THINK I'M NOT DOING THAT, YOU DAMN OAF?!"_ Rickard flinched. It did well to remind him from whom Brandon inherited the Wolf's Blood. Her shriek was ear-piercing, a barbed needle that threatened to gouge Rickard's heart. _You're strong. YOU'RE STRONG. PUSH, DAMN YOU._ Seconds were as long as hours then, but her screams finally died down, and replacing it was a deafening silence. He did not hear the soft whimpering that followed the pain. _No, no, NO._ Lyarra had fainted from the blood loss already, but turning around and looking at his newborn, his _son_ unmoving and silent left him in fear. He loathed the sensation plaguing his mind, the powerlessness. All he could do was look at his stillborn while his wife's life withered away.

Even the babe was ghastly. Born nearly a moon prior to his expected time, he was small, fragile, ugly. And with his wife's profuse bleeding, he was coated in red and black and brown, making him look closer to a miserable little imp than an actual babe. One of the nurses, one of the older ones, _Nan_, she was called, took him immediately. All his inaction in fear was determination in her eyes. Without hesitation or disgust, she took the babe, pressed him against her and slapped his bottom. A minute of doing so brought little coughs from the newborn, and Rickard felt a relief in his heart like he'd never felt with Bran and Ned's arrival into the world. A soft grip on his hand brought him to look at his wife, whose tears could not hide her soft, faint smile. "Go to him, Rick. Hold our son for us."

He nodded faintly. As far as he was doing, he might have been no damn better than Bran or Ned. Hells, they might have done a better job than he was doing now. But he took to his wife's guidance, left her side for a minute, and looked to Nan, who used a moist towel to clean the boy. She gave him a reassuring smile and held him out to the Lord of Winterfell, who held him carefully, afraid he would break. He only felt that fear with Bran, that was his first time in such a case. But this one, the bloodiness, the fear… _it doesn't matter. He's alive. Ly's alive._ He whimpered, arms and legs barely moving, but sporting a liveliness that quenched his fears. He knelt besides Ly, who ignored the nurses' stitches and towels, and looked at her son. She choked on a sob. "Rick, _he's beautiful._"

"Yes, he is, Ly. Our boy, our _son._ Little Benjen." At that, his wife gave soft laughter, shaking her head as well as her pillows would allow. He raised his brow. _I wanted our next son to be named that… not like it matters. She went through all that, she deserves to name him._ "No? Then what were you thinking, my love? Who is our boy?"

"Geralt. Geralt Stark is our son. Little Ger will play with Bran and Ned when he's older, and he'll fight harder than anyone to protect his family. With how fierce he was while he was inside me, and how daring he was to come so early… yes, Geralt will be his name." For a moment, Rickard thought she spoke of King Aerys's White Bull, undoubtedly a good warrior to be promoted to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, especially after his actions on the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He admitted he wasn't fond of a southron name, but he could not deny his wife's wish. But Gerold wasn't Geralt, and Geralt had been a Stark once, if not a lesser known in history. Most annals of the war on the Night's King were lost, but some said the only reason Brandon the Breaker and Joramun the Free fought together was at Geralt Snow's behest, the unsung bastard hero of the War for the Dawn. Bringing together his brother's northmen and his friend's wildlings, the three fell against the Night's King and won.

He looked at his boy. He was a third-born, though that didn't make him any less a Stark. He came into the world bloodily, but he survived his first great peril. He was young and frail now, but that did not mean he would not grow. He was premature, but he was fine and healthy. Yes… Geralt would do. Geralt was his name. He smiled, unable to stop a lone tear from rushing down his cheek. "Geralt Stark then, Ly. Our little Ger."

* * *

Years had passed, and life at Winterfell had continued splendidly. If Rickard didn't count the greying hairs that continued to colonize more and more of his beard. It seemed to be catching up to his head, according to his wife. He could only count with Ned when it came to the children that actually gave him a measure of peace. Brandon, Geralt and Lyanna seemed intent on finding all matter of mischief and putting him in the Crypts before his time. Bran was the oldest and proudest, even at six finding ways in which he could use his status as firstborn to gain some measure of power, if only to demand the cooks to make him more sweets. Lya took after her eldest, even at two being a force to reckon with, screeching and howling whenever something didn't go her way. Ned, in comparison, was silent and obedient, a blessing Rickard never knew he could be so thankful for.

Ger was… Ger was Ger. He was different from the others, even since birth. The strange, faint birthmark on the back of his neck should have been a sign of that. He was only three, to be sure, but his wildness was nothing like Bran's when the latter was younger. He wasn't disobedient, not intentionally at least, but there were things he would do because he chose to, or duties he would do his own way and no other way. He was strange, having unique fixations on how he approached his life, and he was fiercely aggressive whenever someone threatened that. He could only shake his head when he remembered how he stabbed a nurse with his fork because he wanted to cut his own meat. He apologized, Ly made _damn sure_ of that, but he remained adamant on feeding himself. _At least he strives for independence, not to satiate power hunger._

His wife, in the meantime, was eight and a half moons swollen. She had a glowing about her she didn't have before, but Rickard once again felt the nerves threatening to overpower him. All pointed towards him being wrong, and after Ger, he was convinced that nothing was too strong for his wife. But… there was something about it this time, Lyarra did not seem all there as she used to be, her ferociously strong will becoming more absent by the day. Even the children were beginning to notice. It was all he could do to maintain the calm. _It'll all be well soon enough. Once Benjen–or Arya, is born, all will be well._ She was fine. She was past the dangerous premature period Geralt was born in, but he still had the sinking feeling. _This time I'm here, though. I'm not down south asking for King Aerys's aid in claiming more of the North. I'm where I need to be._

He held her in his bed, the only movement from her being the kicking within her womb. He looked at his beautiful Ly. _I can't lose you. You're the one I trust most. The one who can tell me when greed and ambition get the best of me. You're the best of me._ And with those thoughts, he held her close to him before his mind drifted off into the night's peaceful abyss, drowning thoughts and silencing fears. He awoke to wetness, but not to screams. It was still dark, though the growing moon had passed plenty of its course. He looked to Lyarra and touched her face, unmoving and tense. If it wasn't for the fever, she'd be cold. He threw the covers off to see her legs, and his, soaked in her bodily fluids and blood. _"NURSES, MY WIFE IS TO BIRTH!"_

His roar had brought about a flock of the ladies, shocked to see his wife still, but wasting no time in carrying her to the room. He was naked, finding the time only to put on some simple robes and boots before following after them. _"AND BRING THE MAESTER, SHE'S BLEEDING AND FAINTED!"_

_This is it._ He damned the Gods then. To take her sleeping was to take her at her weakest, undoubtedly the only time she was weak enough to be robbed from him. _Spiteful cunts, she was too strong for you in life, and you'd take her while she's giving birth?_ He was nauseous. He wanted to hold her as he did last time, but the Maester told him this time, he needed to perform surgery while she was delivering. He sat outside the room, his robes hugging his legs uncomfortably, plastering against his wife's blood. Silence, he found, was even more damning than the screaming. _At least give her a chance to fight, damn you all._ He was in pain, in fear. He was powerless again, and this time he was away from her. It took him a few moments to realize his children were before him. Brandon was holding little Lyanna's hand while Eddard and Geralt were standing at his sides. They were softly weeping, but they were silent.

…_I have to be strong. If not for her, for them._ "Come here, pups. Your mother will be out with Benjen soon. We'll all laugh about this tomorrow. Everything will be alright."

His voice was as warm as it could be, and his children rushed into his open arms. Only Geralt didn't look convinced. The look he had told Rickard he knew what was happening, better than his three siblings. He held them that way, for how long, he didn't know. The damnable darkness and silence hid the passage of time, and he didn't have it in him to ask anyone how'd long it'd been. He didn't know if he'd like the answer. All he knew was that he was his children's pillar, and he refused to crumble. _Or are they mine? I don't know where I'd be without them._

The door opened, and out came old Maester Walys. He was relieved to hear the crying from within the room. But the solemnity of his worn, leathery face told him all he needed to know. "Your son, is well and healthy, Lord Rickard. Lady Lyarra has been administered milk of the poppy to remove her pain, but she is not long for this world. If you wanted to say farewell, my lord, now is the time."

He held his head low and slowly walked away, chains quietly _clinging_ from his body's lethargic movement. Rickard watched him go, mouth agape. _…No, that's not how it was meant to happen._ He could only look at the door besides him, so close and so far away. He was afraid to look inside, to say goodbye. His children continued sobbing into his chest. Only one walked away, waddling into the room where the others couldn't move. Geralt looked inside, his tears dried up, his little expression solemn. He stood still for a moment before he walked inside. A minute passed, and the Lord of Winterfell could only look at the door. Rickard's heart broke. "Bran, hold Ned's hand. I'll carry Lyanna. Come, we should be with your mother."

With one arm, he carried Lya, while with the other hand, he led Bran who led Ned. The room inside wasn't half as horrifying as Geralt's birth had been, far less bloody and messy. Instead it was somber, a melancholic presence in the room that came with the presence of death. The nurses looked at him nervously, sad and defeated. _Ly was truly loved in Winterfell, how could she not be? She had Wolf's Blood running through a golden heart._ When he found none of them to be holding his child, he tensed. It was only when he found Ger sitting on a chair next to his mother's bed that he was taken aback. As Rickard held Lyanna, Ger held the babe, clean and silent and asleep. He held his smiling mother's hand in the other.

"It's alright mother. Benjen's fine. We're fine. You can sleep now." Lyarra said nothing, but her smile grew a little wider, caressing her son's little hand in her own. She gave a slow and careful kiss to Ben's little forehead, who Ger held close to her. She lazily turned her eyes to him and their children. Brandon was sobbing loudly and disheartened, while Eddard was silent in his whimpers. Lyanna cried into his chest. Rickard smiled past the tears. "Geralt's right, Lyarra. We're alright, all of us. They have you as a mother, a lady so strong the Gods had to take her sleeping. Benjen will be fine and strong, like you. We love you."

"_I love you all too. Be strong, Rickard."_ Her words were faint, but her smile didn't falter. It was tragic, but there was a sweetness to them. When her eyes closed, Rickard felt numb. He still held on to the children, still crying, but his eyes were dry now. Geralt too looked shock, but overall composed, if only at first glance. He still held on to his mother's limp hand, but his grip on Benjen did not loosen for a moment. They remained that way a little longer, each of their children giving their mother a parting kiss on her forehead. _Better now before she's cold, truly cold._ He would have her buried in the Crypts, tradition be damned. The nurses finally snapped from their waking dream, taking to the children, a few attending Benjen. The only one that grabbed little Ger's arm was shocked at how he yanked it viciously from her. Her eyes widened, but Rickard put a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. She opened her mouth for a brief second, but Nan grabbed her by the elbow and gave him a nod.

He knelt beside the bed, at Geralt's height, who still held on to his mother. Rickard looked at him and nearly came undone. He placed both hands on his cheeks and kissed the top of his head. "You did good, Geralt, better than I could have done. You… you're strong. Like your mother. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

He nodded silently, tears fleeting his eyes, but with an unchanged face and without the chest-heaving his siblings had been stricken with. Sometimes he wondered if his thirdborn was truly a child, or an adult trapped in a very young body. _Doesn't matter. He is my son. They are my children, my pups. The direwolves of Winterfell. They'll make you proud Ly, I promise you._ Slowly and gently, Rickard pried Ger's hands from his mother's and into his own. He looked up at him before freeing his hand from his. He hopped onto the bed, hugged Lyarra's head and kissed her on her forehead. When he jumped back down, he looked up to his father and held out an expectant hand. Rickard held it gently, and led him to his room. _The other three needn't know. _They were young, they didn't understand what happened. He let Geralt sleep in his bed that night, cleaned with new sheets. _My son. My strongest son._

**Author's Notes: Just to be sure no one gets confused: Rickard Stark is not a pedophile. He simply saw that one of his sons was more affected than the others because he understood that his mother had died and preferred he stayed with him. Now that you know Guts's new origin and family, I'll let you in on who Rickard and Lyarra would be protrayed by (in my head):**

**\- Rickard Stark: Ian McShane (his portrayal in S6 was short and underused, so I'm using him as the Stark patriarch)**

**\- Lyarra Stark: Cate Blanchett (for a mother with no wiki description, I figured she had to be beautiful and strong-willed, which Cate Blanchett fits in perfectly)**

**Lyarra's "fancasting" might be short and even pointless, but I figured it's good to have an image in your head of what certain important characters look like. Guts's own actor equivalent is what I consider to be the best pick in the fancasting I've made (you'll find out in the best episode). If you want to guess prematurely, it has a lot to do with his name.**

**So to summarize the chapter, I wanted to make Guts's birth parallel but humane to his birth in the Berserk universe. And, having been at Shisu's side at the moment of her death, I figured he 'inherently' (or by experience of a past life) knows how to handle someone who is dying. Not much happened this chapter, but it's a setup for the beginning and how the dynamics should play out in the coming chapters. And for reference, one of the first arcs of the story (maybe not the first) will be Robert's Rebellion, which Guts/Geralt will be a part of. After that, I think you could expect a jump to the 'modern day' of Game of Thrones. Anyways, I hope you've enjoyed, and these Author's Notes will only be long for the first episodes (while I write who's cast as who and how the story will work). Feel free to give feedback, if you enjoyed something or hated it, or if you see room for improvement. I'm open to all of it.**

**The Almighty Afroduck,**

**All Hail**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: Well, with 30 followers (much more than I was expecting so early on), I'd say we have a class's worth reading this story, so gather 'round children. This is the last very fast update you can expect for the time being, since I've got midterms this week. I suppose the immense inspiration I've gotten for this story comes from loving the idea this gives me in my head, so I've been restlessly writing. This chapter should have a much more standard length for what you can expect from future chapters (about 9,000 words, give or take a couple hundred). It's still introductory, but it's starting to really take shape now. Before I get on with it, since it's the GoT screen universe (at least in the visual aspect), here's my cast for the Stark household (we'll get to others soon enough):**

**Rickard Stark - Ian McShane**

**Brandon Stark - Chris Hemsworth (young and dark haired)**

**Eddard Stark - Sean Bean (as young as his character)**

**Geralt Stark - Henry Cavill (young (I'm especially proud of this pick, I was careful when picking this one))**

**Lyanna Stark - Kaya Scodelario (young)**

**Benjen Stark - Joseph Mawle (young)**

**With very few exceptions, the cast will simply be a younger version of the cast of Game of Thrones. Looking up pictures of their younger selves online and imagining the acting to go with it makes it easier to imagine than brand new casting. As for the casting, some of it I find to be perfect (with Henry Cavill being a perfect fit for Guts), and some is mainly visual. Most of the weirder 'characters' are mainly visual, the story will just show how it's played out.**

**As for the reviews, I'll answer briefly at the end of the chapter in what I can to clear up doubts without spoiling. Until then, enjoy the chapter!**

**Blue Rose**

Geralt had had a… unique childhood. He had been plagued with nightmares since his youth, of evil monsters and even crueler men. He dreamt of solitude and pain, of fantastical planes and mediocre prisons. He spent his nights in fear, feeling like he was on the edge of an abyss, an abyss which longed to drag him into the vilest pits of all the Hells. Sometimes they were so vivid, Geralt could not help but feel that they were very real, even when they made no sense. A hand two or more times bigger than the Wall itself, a man who turned into a slug, children that became ravenous butterflies and wasps, and bloody eggs with twisted faces on them. There were times he thought he was mad. But even then, some dreams were crueler, closer to reality. He dreamt of men using him to fight and kill, friends who saw him as nothing more than a tool, and a large dark figure with a grin that would forever haunt him.

The waking world was greatly kinder. It was like being reminded that those nightmares had no base, no reason to be. Geralt was, by nature, a lone wolf. Even then, his family flocked to him time and time again, and though it once frustrated him to no end, he enjoyed the warmth. He was the third son of a family of five, and his father was the lord of the North, seated at the capital of the largest portion of land in all of Westeros. He was a Stark of Winterfell, a direwolf amongst wolves. Even as a thirdborn, he had duties and responsibilities to keep up with. Knowledge of the other Great Houses, the houses of the North, proper knowledge on tactics and warfare, amongst more things. In fact, in the last one, he wound up being somewhat prodigious. Though his nightmares were the demons that awaited him at the end of the day, sometimes he would dream of better days, of a royal white hawk leading men and using intelligent strategy to win against overwhelming odds.

His greatest work, however, and perhaps the one he was best fit to, was combat. Since he was six, he would swing a sword. Old Rodrik Cassel tried to get him to use a wooden sword, but Geralt howled and snarled. He didn't get it then, but he resigned himself to sneaking into the morning and picking out old, steel short-swords. They were big in his hands, but he had dreamt of a sword far greater, impossibly larger. If he could wield that monster, a short sword wouldn't be difficult. And it wasn't. He swung the steel to the best his little body could handle, until one day his father and Rodrik caught him. The Lord of Winterfell prohibited from doing that again. That just meant Geralt would wake up earlier, and find wherever they snuck the swords into. Getting caught a second time let them know he was adamant in his methodology, and Rickard Stark decided to allow him to train _exclusively_ with blunted swords, capable of bludgeoning at best, but never cutting. Geralt accepted the ultimatum. He only wanted the swords for their weight.

His father was a good man. An ambitious man, but a good man. Geralt was naturally paranoid about greed and desire, but he knew his father well enough that all the money and all the lands and all the power in the world would not be enough for Rickard Stark to give up his people, much less his family. That didn't stop him from getting ideas on how to strengthen the North. Maester Walys was responsible for that, at least that's what the other northern lords said. The southron was dismissed after his failure to save Geralt's mother, but the seeds he planted in his father's head had already flourished. _Lyarra kept him grounded. With her gone, he's all scent and hunger._ He heard that one from some old Dustin whose name he couldn't remember. Squaring up against him and threatening in all his terror of eight years should have made the elder laugh, but somehow it set the old lord straight.

Brandon was another matter. He was called the _Wild Wolf_ for a reason. Handsome, long hair, eyes between steely gray and stormy blue, he was considered the pride of House Stark. _And the idiot acts like it too._ He loved Bran, he was his brother, but that didn't stop Geralt from wanting to break his nose from time to time. One time he did, and his brother's retribution was fierce, but Geralt never backed from the fight. They were evenly matched, in fact, and it was Old Rodrik that stopped the fight before there could be a victor. Bran was a good brother, a loving brother, but he was also proud. And with that pride came greed. And lust. So much damn lust. _I'll bet half the gray hairs from father's head come from other lords catching their daughters with him, the ones that caught him anyways._ For lack of better words, Geralt thought Bran was an idiot, a loving, good idiot to have on his side, but an idiot.

Eddard was as far from Brandon as the sun was from the moon. Where Bran was boisterous and loud and charismatic, Ned was reserved, gentle and shy, the Quiet Wolf. He had a fierceness in him too, but it took plenty to evoke that. While Geralt certainly got along with Ned better, there was one thing that continually frustrated him about the secondborn. For all of Ned's temperance and goodwill and intelligence, he had no will of his own. He was perfectly obedient at all times, and rarely ever came to think for himself. _If he'd been born heir, father would be happiest._ He was a good companion, a great friend and an excellent confidant, but without his own drive for something for himself, Geralt could not help but feel like Bran was Ned's better in what was most essential for any person alive. Unfortunately, with his continual stays in the Eyrie, he never got to voice those concerns to the quiet brother.

Lyanna, for that reason, had been Geralt's closest friend. She was a, no, _the _She-Wolf of House Stark. She was very much like Bran if he'd been born a girl, but with half the flaws. Lya was strong-willed, unrepentant and cunning. She fought for what she wanted and let nothing get in the way of that. Well, she wouldn't use her siblings or family for something genuinely important, but the bitch was certainly crafty enough to know her way around them. They fought all the time as children, clashing time and time again with only a year's difference. But mother's death brought them all closer together, especially for Benjen's sake. He could only smile as he remembered when she caught him training in the black of the night with the blunted iron sword and demanded he teach her. He told her to go find something to knit, and she pounced on him. If he hadn't been so tired, he wouldn't have been overpowered. But when she held his own sword against his throat, he knew she'd find a way to fight one way or another. Better he teach her than she teach herself, if that was the case.

Benjen was the youngest and sweetest of them. Thinking back to Ned, he had to remove the thought of shyness describing him. Ned was solemn, it was Ben who was shy. But Ben was also well-meaning, and sweet. He had about as much Wolf's Blood in him as Ned, which wasn't exactly none, but it was certainly far less than Bran, Lya and himself. The Pup was mostly all smiles and always looked for the answer that would make everyone happy. Every so often though, Geralt could see past Benjen's mirth, a sadness hidden behind his eyes. He couldn't blame the youngest, he bore the weight of mother's death on his shoulders, even if it wasn't his fault. He was violently protective of him for that. They all were, it was the single common ground all siblings shared. The Pup was theirs to raise and protect, and no one would hurt him without their retaliation.

Overall, Geralt considered his life a good one. Sometimes he'd dream of his mother, holding her hand as she lay dying. Sometimes, she would look like she had some sickness eating at her, a plague marring her features. She was very present in his sadder dreams. It was a pain he shared with his father. Rickard Stark treated him differently since that day. _You may not be the only one with Wolf's Blood, Ger, but you're the only one with the mind to tame it. The others will learn, but later in life. Never forget that strength._ For the others he held the patience a father would for his children. With Geralt it was in part the same, but he treated him like an adult as well. And, for all of his own stubbornness, he often acted the most mature of the litter. Often was not always.

Geralt turned halfway back to look at Winterfell, the imposing walls making for a magnificent sight. Snow dropped slowly on his thirteenth nameday, and he wanted to enjoy some silence before the whole damn castle went up in celebration. It was his little rebellion against his father, but it was definitely on the better side of them considering Bran. He laughed, remembering his father's red face and Bran's fear when he pulled him out himself naked from Nesta Norrey's bed, when she visited with her father and brother. No, he wanted time for himself, time to think.

When he came upon the Godswood, he felt much more at peace. He wasn't sure if the Old Gods were real, though he knew his father prayed to them time from time. When he asked him where the book for that was, he laughed. _If the Gods need books to speak to you, they are as good as mutes. When you stand before the Heart Tree, listen to the wind, the leaves, the running water. They'll speak through them, if you know how to listen._ He didn't. But he found peace there regardless, and he was grateful for the Heart Tree itself, even with how strange the face looked. The Godswood helped him whenever nightmares wouldn't let him sleep, when mad visions and cruel ideas threatened to take over. They brought peace, they brought _silence_. They saved him from himself. And sometimes, he had half a mind to believe they _did_ give answers in their own way. They were what led him to dream of training in another life, to come up with the idea of using actual swords to practice despite what others would say.

He sat on one of the great roots, and took a look around. The dawn was almost upon Winterfell, and the stars and the moon would fade from the sky. In the violet hues of the night, he let out a frosty breath. He'd dreamt of the hawk again, shining brightly like a comet in the abyss. But then the hawk was surrounded by the silhouette of a black falcon, cruel and menacing, whose wingspan blocked out the sky. Geralt had realized that the 'hawk' was nothing more than a painting on the falcon's chest, something for the world to look at to ignore the black beast that stole their light. He looked at the long, broad face of the Weirwood, solemn as a Stark, and wise as a Maester. It cried sap from its eyes, red tears that spoke of damning knowledge. Forbidden knowledge. Geralt frowned. _Forbidden knowledge, where the hell did I come up with that?_

He shook his head, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. _Listen to the wind, the leaves, the running water._ The water was faster now, being well into spring and with summer approaching. The wind still made the leaves give their telltale chant, though now there were newer, smaller ones budding in to the chorus. He felt peace, he was well away from the chaos of his mind here. It's as if the Godswood was magical, capable of bringing peace to those who embraced it. When he opened his eyes again, his mind was clear of his newest nightmare. He smiled, _now I have a better chance at facing the family._ Getting up from his place and patting away the snow from his cloak, he tensed when he looked at a shadow in the distance. Red eyes peered at him from afar, and Geralt felt a tingling sensation on the back of his neck. He instinctively touched it, but found it to be normal still.

He reached for his sword and took it out immediately, an average greatsword that should have been too big for his age. He got closer to the shadow, "Hey UGLY! You lookin' for a fight? _I'm right fucking here."_

When he got closer, he froze. He couldn't see too far ahead, but what he could see through the snowfall was a man armored from head to toe, on a macabre horse in equal wear. His heart near stopped when he realized the red eyes came from within the helmet, which from afar, looked like a skull. The rider said nothing, only looking on at him. Geralt had a hard time between the instinct telling him to drive his sword through the invader and run to Winterfell before he could get cut down. But the mysterious knight simply backed away into a fog, the red eyes observing him until they were gone. Geralt grasped his head. "Fuck, am I really going mad now?"

He looked to the Heart Tree for answers, and could almost say its eyes looked wider. Walking slowly towards it and placing his hand on it, he waited for a reaction. Nothing happened and Geralt shivered. _Fuck, this is it. I thought only Targaryens had this._ But the river flowed and the leaves sang from a particular place. He looked again to where the mysterious rider had been standing and found the man to be gone. In his place was something blue on the ground, something glowing. Sword in hand, Geralt walked close to it, and found himself before a blue rose. A winter rose. _This… wasn't here before. Flowers can't grow here, not with all the trees blocking out the sky. _It was just a flower, nothing more. And yet, there it was now.

He knelt down next to it, inspecting it closely. It looked like it was made for the cold, but the lack of sun was what was keeping it malnourished. Geralt grit his teeth. _Bran hears I'm collecting flowers now and I'll never hear the end of it. Fuck it._ He removed the snow around the flower and began to dig at the soil around it. Once it was out, roots and all, he carried it the way he carried Benjen when he was a babe. _Great, I'm takin care of fucking flowers now. What's next, I'll let horses ride on my back?_ But he didn't let go of the rose, and he didn't stop until he was back in Winterfell. Through halls he ran, fast before the rest of the North would wake. _C'mon, c'mon, where's the damn flowers again?_ Living there for thirteen years should have been enough for him to learn, but then he'd never cared for the gardens.

Making it by one of the courtyards, he almost planted it on the soil, but stopped himself. _What if someone pulls it out as a gift? Sounds like something Bran would do to seduce a servant girl._ He continued running. _Where, where, where?_ He stopped and thought, before a grimace came to him. _It'll have to be my room then. Not many people go there except Lya… I'll have to threaten her with telling father I'm training her if she touches it._ He didn't know why he was being so protective to a flower, _it made no sense._ But there he was, defending it as if his life depended on it. Or rather, someone else's. _It made no sense._

When he got to his room, he placed the rose on a pot he had stolen along the way and placed it by the window. The stone was wide enough that even if the pot was knocked over, it wouldn't fall. _There, that should do it._ He let out a deep sigh, laying on his bed and looking out the window. The sun was finally rising, the first hour of the morn painting the edge of the horizon red and pink and orange. It made it to his room. Geralt took deep breaths, looking at the ceiling in solace. He didn't know why he felt solemn, but he did. His mind flashed to a jail, cold as the Neck, but with nothing to cover himself. He remembered a plump, fat rat, the screeches that echoed through the small prison as he devoured it. He remembered the foul taste, though the relief his stomach felt when he finally gave it feed. Geralt shook his head. _That's someone else. That's not me._ He closed his eyes. _Listen to the wind, the leaves, the running water._

He heard the leaves moving. His eyes opened at that. The plant had been limp, unmoving. But with the sun, something seemed to have changed. He sat up on his bed to find that the blue rose was upright now, drinking in the light that had been denied from it. _It's pretty._ Geralt didn't know why, but it brought him peace. Squinting his eyes, it was what he saw besides the flower that had him jumping. And when he jumped from his bed, she hid behind the flower. He slowly walked towards it. He laughed a humorless chuckle. _"I guess I've really gone mad then."_

He bent forwards to look at it closely. A figure was hiding behind the rose, shivering slightly. When its head–_her head_ peeked out, Geralt raised a brow. She looked like the dolls his father had gifted Lyanna when she was young, back when he thought she could be tamed. She had several short leaves woven into a dress, starting at her chest and ending at her knees. Her hair was a dark green, not unlike the grass that surrounded the flower. It was tied back in a bun, which in turn transformed into a miniature rose itself. Her face was a child's, curious and innocent. She stepped out in front of the flower, allowing him to look at her whole body, which could have easily fit in the palm of his hands. The two stayed looking at each other, until a light entered her eyes. Geralt could have sworn the last time he'd seen that much joy in someone had been a while, when father allowed Lya to take riding lessons. _"Guts Human!"_

His expression remained shock, so much so he did not have time to react to the little girl hopping onto his sleeve, climbing up and hugging his face. _…What? _He felt her. _He felt her._ She was real. And if she had had _any _other face, he would have flicked her from the window and tore apart the rose. But the face… _her_ face... _she was in my dreams. My dreams. Are they dreams now, or are they real? She's… she's…_ "…Chitch?"

"GUTS HUMAN! Chitch happy! Chitch SO HAPPY! Chitch full of poppo! Chitch with friend! Human friend Guts!" He cringed at the name, he didn't know why. _Doesn't matter, I can deal with that later._ There was something about her face, her sweet, innocent face that made him hurt. And it hurt deeply. _She's a kid. She was brought to me just to be my damn weakness._ But in spite of the needles poking at the strings of his heart, he made himself smile. He sat on his bed, which made her fall from his head. He caught her in his hands, and she was in the same place as she had been in his dreams. _Only this time, she's a winter rose instead… but still an elf._ It didn't matter, not for the time being. "It's Geralt. I don't know who this 'Guts' is, but I know you. Besides, I promised, didn't I? I still haven't gotten you to your buddies, and I get the feeling that this time around, I'll get the chance to take you."

Her smile dwindled then. She frowned at him before looking at her feet. Geralt frowned too. _Is it because of the 'Guts' thing? Hells, I don't want her to start calling me that. Didn't think that would bother her so much._ She started shaking. Geralt grit his teeth, his mind berating all his recent mistakes with the little girl. With a finger, he gently poked her in the stomach. "Chitch, you alright?"

She looked back up at him, tears running down her cheeks. A very high whimper let him know she was on the verge of a breakdown. Geralt felt sweat threatening to sprout from his forehead. _Fuck, what do I do now?_ He opened his mouth to speak, but she jumped from his arm and onto his leg. She ran to his torso and hugged him as tightly as she could. She sobbed then, sobbed loudly. He would have been annoyed, _should have been annoyed._ But something about her crying reminded him of Lyanna, who only ever wept when she was truly heartbroken. He gently wrapped her body with one of his hands. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She looked up again, hiccupping every time she tried to take a full breath. "G-Guts Hu-Human remember Chitch. Friend re-remember Chitch. Ch-Chitch not alone."

There was something painful about hearing that. The feeling of being alone and forgotten by most and used and abused by the rest… he knew that feeling. He knew that feeling much, much better than he had the right to as a Stark of Winterfell. But Guts… _No, I can't think about who she's talking about now, that can wait. It's not important now._ He cursed internally, he didn't want to tear up, he refused to. He remembered his father then, words that he kept as a mantra. _You're strong. Like your mother._ Mother would smile if she were in his place, so he did the same. With a finger, he poked the elf on the head. "No, you're not. So smile. You've got a human friend, and soon you'll have many elf friends."

"E-Elf?" She repeated, sadness overtaken by interest. _Gotcha._ Guts sighed in relief. "Yeah, elves. Like you. Like Chitch. Some day you'll meet them. I've met them. _I think._ We'll just have to find them again, and you can live in a field of flowers forever. How's that sound?"

"Ch-Chitch happy! G-Guts Human make Chitch full of poppo!" She was still hiccupping, but her smile returned. _Good, back on track. Now all I need to do is find a way to get her to stop calling me 'Guts'._ He cringed when he heard it. He shivered when he _thought _it. _One way or another, I'm figuring out if I'm crazy and just imagined all that shit in my dreams and I'm just talking to a flower or if it's all real. Until then, I'm keeping the elf… Chitch, safe and happy._ "It's Geralt Human. My friends call me Ger for short, so you can call me that too."

"G-Ger? Ger! Ger Human!" She cheered, hopping on his leg and dancing around. Geralt's lip tightened to a thin line. _For some reason, I thought she could fly._ He shook his head. Grabbing her with one hand, he stood up and grabbed the pot in the other. He placed it on the table by his bedside. _It ain't the best, but now she'll be in less risk._ He placed her on the soil, letting her dance in circles around the rose. She cheered even more when she saw the sun rising a little further, enough to turn the skies into shades of blue instead of shades of pink. His eyes widened. _Fuck, it's my nameday._ Dreams of a leafless, withered field flower entered his mind. _Fuck._ He turned a serious face and looked at Chitch. She stopped dancing and looked at him with big, sweet eyes.

"Chitch, _no_ pulling leaves from the flower, alright? If anyone comes into the room, hide. You can use my bed to hide. No one should come, but if they do, _you hide._ They probably won't see you, but you never know if they will. Just… just wait for me, I'll come back later. And _don't pull out the leaves."_ Her eyes got sad again. "Ger Human leaving?"

Geralt sighed. He knelt in front of the flower, and with one calloused finger, he rubbed her head. "Ger Human coming back. Stay here, enjoy poppo. I'll come back soon. Ger Human is friend. Friends don't leave friends. Friends don't forget friends."

"Ger Human come back later? Chitch wait with poppo!" She was happy again, and Geralt sighed in relief. _Hells, I think I'm starting to understand why father stresses so much over us._ He grabbed her and gave her a last hug, which she embraced fully, before putting her back by the rose. Getting up to leave the room, he turned back to wave at her. She waved enthusiastically from the top of the flower. He almost laughed, leaving the room and quietly closing the door behind him. By the time he turned around, he'd already been pounced on. _"HAPPY NAMEDAY, GER!"_

He almost threw Lya off of him from the surprise. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, and it took his heart slowing down before he could return the hug. He laughed lightly. "Gods damned she-wolf. What are you doing up?"

"What are _you_ doing so late? You didn't train me today, _you ass." _She frowned at him, and he rubbed the back of his head. He laughed. "It's my damn nameday, Lyanna. I'll do whatever I fucking want. I'm sure you'll have doing _lots_ of needlework today instead."

She punched him in the arm, and he laughed louder. He threw an arm around her and forced her into a half hug, putting on a forceful stride so she would follow. Her frown transformed into a laughing smile. He discretely turned his head halfway back to the room. _I'll be back soon. I need to find someplace safer for her flower._ He let go of his sister soon enough. He had a lot on his mind, and the last thing he needed was to worry about family at the moment. He loved them, but he felt them intruding on something much bigger than himself, than all of them. But if Chitch was a light of his dreams that was real, that meant the shadows could not be dismissed either. He thought of the elf he rescued, the dreams she spawned from. He thought of the mysterious knight in the Godswood. There was something profoundly unnerving to it all.

"Ger, what's with the face? It's your nameday." Geralt frowned. "Didn't sleep much."

"Oh, stop _whining._ Ned's around again and he didn't bring that _idiot_ with him this time." That made him laugh. It was another strange thing about the second eldest brother, he supposed. For however different Ned was from Brandon, he was almost as close as blood to Robert Baratheon. And Robert Baratheon was almost the same as Brandon was. _One's got antlers and the other has jaws._ The only reason Lya hated Robert and loved Bran was because Bran was her brother. If he wasn't, Geralt was sure she'd hate him as much, if not more for 'ruining the northman's name'. But Ned saw none of that in Robert, or rather, he chose to ignore his fellow ward's shortcomings. Father had almost made Geralt to ward in the Reach, having just enough ties to Olenna Redwyne to make something happen. He spent a fortnight outside of Winterfell before his father called off the arrangement. Even the hounds couldn't find him, and eventually, the lord only left a large wooden sign stating he'd be staying in the North by the gates.

"Yeah. If he was here, I'm pretty sure he'd get into a contest with Bran over who could fuck the most girls. He could even win if father got word of it. Robert has no parents to smack him if he starts making a mess wherever he goes." Geralt's response was dry, but not angry. There was a brief flash of sympathy on his sister's face at his words. He blinked and she was scowling again. "That's no excuse. I've never used mother's death to excuse myself."

"Doesn't stop you from keeping father from having a night's worth of sleep." He had a half-grin now, and it only grew when she hit his arm again. _"I don't want to be some stupid lord's lady, you ass._ And what about you? Bran's dumb and I'm brave, but _you're_ the one who's done half the mad shit that goes on in Winterfell!"

"I do what I do for me and because of me, no one else. I try to help father with what I can in my own way, but I ain't some damn game piece that can get moved around Westeros for someone's wish. I'll obey father and try to be a good son, but I am my own man, no one else's." He was adamant in his words, bringing steel to his voice when he lectured his sister. She didn't back down. "That's what _I'm_ doing! I want to be my own woman, fight my own fights! I don't want to dress fancy or act stupid and _swoon_ for whatever some lord may say to get between my legs!"

"No, that's what _you tell yourself_ you're doin'. You keep saying you want to be your own woman, but then you try and please father in any way you can. And when he asks you to be a 'good lady' and act like some child's doll, you get angry and start making a mess. If you want to be your own person, _and you mean it_, then you stop caring 'bout what anyone else says and you go your own way. You don't tell people you're going your own way, you _go_ your own way. If all you do is talk, then you better shut up and dress pretty. No one likes people who talk horseshit. Not in the North, at least." Lya looked at him in shock, betrayed. She opened her mouth for a rebuttal that never came. She hesitated, but one good look at her and she was looking at the ground sullenly. She continued walking with him, but she kept some distance now. _…Damn it._ He got closer to her and put an arm around her.

"Look, Lya, I'm not saying you shouldn't try to do what you want to. I'm saying you've gotta stop caring what people will say and think if you do. Father would hate it if you were riding and fighting for the rest of your life, but he'd never hate you. Nothing you do will change his mind about that, the same way nothing he does will change yours. But, if you _act _by your own word, and you act without regrets, then people will respect you, even the ones that hate you. You just gotta accept that." Her tension was gone, but her expression was still solemn. "Easy for _you_ to say, Geralt. _You're a man._ You could do all that and people would love you for it."

"Like the northerners? You think they'd like Lord Rickard Stark's son to hang around with commoners and fight everyone and 'act like an ass', like you call me? No, Ned's the best kind of northerner, and Benjen's second best. Bran can still get by if he calls if Wolf's Blood, but people's honor around him would have them cut his cock off if he keeps at it. You could be a good northerner, you act like one when you reel in your passion. I'm the one who's a shit northman. I don't care much for honor, noble blood or court duties. I'll fight for father, for you and all of us Starks, but I couldn't be fucked to help with everyone else's struggles that _they _started. I've got enough to deal with myself." His thought went to a blue rose, and the shadow that came before it. Lya looked at him intently. He shook his head. "But I'm fine with that. If I'm a northman without honor, I know the consequences and I've got no problem dealing with them. You know why? _I _chose that. _I _chose this struggle. You just need to choose yours."

"…I guess you're right, it's just… after mother passed, father's been empty, you know? He keeps looking for things to do in his time and things to fill him up and he's looking in the South to fill the hole he has. I want him to be happy, but I _can't_ be a lady. That's not me." _She's been talking to Ned._ Not that he disagreed. He'd had that same conversation with the Quiet Wolf only a few nights past when he returned home again. Both agreed father's grievances manifested through his ambitions, but they only kept getting more ambitious. _If Robert really has the guts to ask for Lya's hand, father won't deny it, and all the Hells will come lose then. He's already writing to Tully about his daughter. That might be good though. If she's pretty enough, Bran might just stick to one bed._ He sighed.

"You can't please everyone, Lya. If you devoted yourself to father… you wouldn't be bad, but you wouldn't be you. Ned's… Ned's better at it. Too good at it. But at least he's got the right head for it. He's the spittin' face of honor, he's smart enough to handle himself, and he's a good man. He might be father's favorite for that, but father's favorite son might be the worst person for someone else. No matter what you do, there's people who'll fight for you and people who'll fight against you. If you're gonna fight either ways, why not pick your own battle?" Lya looked at him, drinking his words like they were a gospel preached by a southron priest. She smiled softly. "When you stop being so damn stubborn, Ger, I think you become the smartest of us. I'm glad you're my brother."

He smirked and shoved her. She fell to the floor, eyes bulging. He laughed loud and heard. _"GERALT, YOU IDIOT!"_

When he ran, she kept at his heels. _She's in a damn dress, how the hell is she so fast?!_ He fell forwards when she tackled him this time. He laughed loud, and so did she. With the two of them getting up and dusting themselves off, she asked him, "Feeling better now, Ger?"

"Yeah, Lya, I am." She was out of her funk too, he noticed. _The push worked._ A voice threatened to put him in one again. "Hells, Ger, you keep throwing our sister to the ground like that, there won't be any girls left in Winterfell that won't be afraid of you."

"Bite me, Bran." Bran laughed loud and boisterously, and much as he tried to keep a frown, his chortles were too damn infectious to remain stoic. The eldest brother swaggered towards the two, stopping in front of Geralt and wrapping him in a bear hug that lifted him from the floor. _"Happy nameday, you miserable little runt!"_

"_Put me down, you idiot!_" Bran did, and Geralt took a moment before giving his brother a real hug, which was promptly returned. Some said they bore the most resemblance to each other amongst the Stark children. _If you didn't keep your hair so short, Ger, and grew a beard, you'd be the spitting image of Brandon._ He swore to cut his hair and always shave when he heard that. Another's laughter brought the three to look at a figure standing against the wall, arms crossed. For once, he wasn't brooding. "Happy nameday, Ger. Try not to fight anyone today."

"Can't promise that, Ned." Another brother, another hug. And from the stomps along the hall, it didn't take a Maester to guess by the eagerness and the lightness of the steps that the Pup had come running to the pack. At almost ten, he resembled Ned, but his smiles came easier. Geralt was the one who carried him in a hug this time. "Happy nameday, brother!"

"Thanks, Ben." He put him down and looked around. All his four siblings were there in front of him, all smiling, all joyful. A strong hand on his shoulder made him look back. "Aye, another nameday, Ger. Perhaps if you start behaving and stop being so unruly, you might get to have more than your father."

Rickard Stark sported a mostly gray beard, in spite of his years. He was still in his prime at thirty-eight, but Lyarra's death had made its way into his features through a few girthy silver lines in his hair and notable crow's feet. Still, his blue eyes held a wisdom and a life that had not been whisked away by the tragedy, and they held warmth for his children whenever he didn't have to act as lord. His smile was soft with hints of cunning, but beneath was an undeniable love his litter. Geralt looked to the hall, saw no one, and gave him a hug. Rickard laughed and slapped him on the back. "You'll be a man soon enough, Geralt, and then I'll have no bloody idea of what to do with you, though I'm sure you will. Come everyone, we have a day of festivities with the other lords3– _you take that frown off Geralt, _or so help me I'll have you cleaning horse dung from the stables for the rest of the day."

"Don't tell him that father, he might just prefer that." Geralt punched Bran's arm, and everyone laughed. With everyone around him and the warmth of his home and his family by him, Geralt smiled. _The nightmares are just nightmares. This is real. This is my world, the world I choose._

* * *

The day had been long, and overall good. Most of the Sworn Houses had been there, so he'd had to deal with a couple of proposals from minor lords to arrange an engagement with their daughters. For once, Geralt had been happy for his father's ambitions, who'd politely declined them in favor of finding southron ladies of better standing. _You're a Stark of Winterfell, and you have the worth of a Stark of Winterfell. _The minor lords didn't need to know that though. Some others, with slightly better proposals, would sooner see him trained and made a soldier of. They had a better chance with Geralt offering that, but he was already content with practicing by himself and the occasional training from Rodrik. The more he grew, the more he found his style to be that of very heavy weapons, which Rodrik couldn't help him too much with. He was working on wielding a greatsword with one hand, but he wasn't quite there yet. He'd get there soon enough. _Crazy child,_ he remembered the whiskered man calling him. He never denied those claims.

Crazy or not, word of his self-imposed training had left the walls and reached the other lords' ears. With wolfish strength, steeled discipline and an iron will, he became an attractive choice for becoming part of an army. Even a select few lords offered him the chance to lead a small team of men. His father declined for him, which saved him the trouble. He wasn't a leader. Perhaps he could fight _in_ a team, but he wasn't a leader, and didn't intend on becoming a commander. He _would _become a damn good swordsman, though. Of that, he was sure.

His celebration had gone on normally since then, though at one point, his father had to near twist his arm to get him to dance some. It was awkward and clumsy and the young lady spent most of it blushing at him. After that first dance, Geralt sat in his place and did not move again. When his father demanded, Geralt threatened to twist _his_ arm. Rickard rolled his eyes, but chose to laugh and leave it alone. The cake was good, the roasted venison was better. The gifts were good enough. The thirdborn son of the Warden of the North was important enough to warrant a few, but not the best and not too many. Geralt was content with that.

Bran gave him some hefty gauntlets, which Geralt had to admit fitted him perfectly and would serve perfectly for training. Ned gifted him _The Gift of the Warrior, What Makes a True Swordsman._ The book was southron, and the name made him frown, but Ned reassured it wasn't religious. If anything, it detailed legendary fighters throughout history and the way they fought successfully according to their strengths. Even Geralt, who wasn't too interested in reading, had to stop himself from ignoring the party and sticking his nose in the book. It had almost been the best gift of that day. Lya gave him a sown direwolf sigil, a rather good one at that, so he could stick it to his armor the day he started fighting. Father said it was much too dark for the Stark-grey of their banners, and Lya retorted she only found the black and blue colors. Geralt smiled and said it worked just fine. Ben had gone for a knife, which Geralt honestly wondered where and how he got it from, finely made and just big enough to fit in his boot. _Him being young doesn't make him any less crafty._

His father smiled and said his gift would be a surprise. Geralt hid his tension. _Either he's getting me something truly special, or he found a way to make his ambition into my nameday present._ A few of the more notable sworn lords had given him gifts as well; books, trinkets and the like. Jeor Mormont, however, presented him with a greatsword, finely made, with a wolf's head pommel. _And this one isn't blunted._ That had been Geralt's favorite gift by far, and he had promised the bear lord that he'd pay him back. His grizzled features had given way for a brief smile then. _Swing that in the name of the North, and there'll be no debt to me. _It was then he realized he liked the Mormonts more than the other lords.

The day was done and Geralt was alone again. With the darkness of the night, the previous sensation of victory against the visions began dwindling. _I'm not gonna start being afraid of the dark now, I'm not a fucking child anymore._ But the thought brought him no comfort. He started walking faster. _Chitch… you better not be there. Please… just be some mad, waking dream. But if you aren't, you better not have plucked all your leaves. Not again. _He didn't know where the 'again' came from, but he knew it was true. He was running now, more comfortably with the weight of a sword on his back. His father had failed at convincing him to place it elsewhere.

When he entered the room, he found the rose there, perfectly standing, perfectly intact. Sitting with her back leaning against the stem, Chitch slept softly. Geralt felt his mind conflicted between fear and relief. He sighed. Walking by his bedside and gently grabbing Chitch, he let her lie down on the soil and continue softly snoring. She was warm. _Full of 'poppo'._ He couldn't stop himself from smiling. _Maybe the nightmares are real. Maybe it's all real, but… maybe it's not all nightmares. _That thought helped him be mildly more at ease. He chuckled slightly, and berated himself for waking the little elf. Drowsily raising her head, she looked at him, blinking owlishly. It didn't take her long to smile wide again. "Ger Human back! Friend came back!"

"Yeah, I did. Friends don't forget friends, remember?" She put a finger by her mouth, thinking inquisitively. She smiled and nodded rapidly. "Friends don't forget friends! Ger Friend said so!"

"I did. And I won't leave you alone. If I ever go, I'll bring you with me. Until we get you home. I promise." Chitch was dancing, but Geralt froze when he heard her voice. "Promise what? Who're you speaking to, Ger?"

Lya was through the door, looking at him with an eyebrow raised. For a moment he felt as cold as winter when he turned to look at her. She looked at him expectantly, then the flower. A moment passed before her brows raised at the unique color of the rose. Her eyes were bulging afterwards, mouth agape at the unique sight Geralt was sure she shared. He was in front of her in a second's time, hand covering her lips. _"Don't scream. Do not say a single fucking word, Lya. I mean it."_

"…Ger Friend? Is she friend?" He turned back, looking at Chitch, none the wiser about the fresh new complication. He frowned. _She saw her. Lya fucking saw her. It's real, and I've already been caught._ He looked at Lya apprehensively, who still observed the magical child with awe. More pressure from his grip made her squeak a bit, looking at him again. "If I let go, promise you won't scream."

She stayed still for what could have been a minute. A very long minute. Slowly, she nodded. He took off his hand even more slowly. Her mouth was still quivering, bottom lip slightly bleeding. _Damn, I think I scraped that against her teeth. Well, it ain't the most I've hurt her._ Lya, in turn, didn't even notice, instead walking slowly towards the blue rose, and the creature it harbored. Bending over and looking closely, she whispered, "…What are you?"

"Human can see Chitch? Chitch even more full of poppo! Is human friend? Whu- human bleeding!" Her expression turned to one of determination, and Geralt swiped her from the pot in the blink of an eye and brought her close to his face. Chitch looked shocked in his hand, looking at him in fear and question. "Chitch, what did I say about the leaves?!"

"B-but human friend–"

"YOU DON'T KNOW IF SHE'S A FRIEND! SHE COULD BE CRUEL, SHE COULD _USE YOU_ AND LEAVE YOU FOR DEAD!" His roar was angry, born from a fear alien to his mind. It made his muscles tense and his mind paranoid. He hated it. He hated that it left Chitch shaking, teary and berated. Geralt knew he was right, but leaving it off like that wouldn't do. He sighed, walking past his sister, standing silent and watching the scene, and placed the elf by the flower again. "Chitch… those leaves are special. They're _your_ leaves. You can't pluck them just for anyone, and you _can't_ pluck them all. It'll hurt you, I know. Lyanna…"

He turned and looked at his sister. The lip was much too bloody for the small size of the cut. "Lyanna is a friend. Lya Friend. But not everyone who sees you is a friend. Lya is, but not everyone. Lya is like Ger, she is my sister. With her… you can use a piece of _one_ leaf for her, not more. She doesn't need more than that. Do _not_ pluck more until it grows back."

Chitch blinked the tears away and smiled, carefully tearing off part of one of the leaves, and jumping up at Lya's figure. She jumped in place, piece stretched out to where Lya's wound would be. His sister, still in silent wonder, looked to her brother. Geralt gave a soft nod. Lya bent close to where Chitch was again, and the little elf placed the leaf piece on her lip. She glowed a little sunshine, as did the leaf. Chitch let go, proud of herself, and Lya touched her lip. The leaf cleaned some of the blood away, though her bottom lip still had some dried crust, but Geralt saw her remove it to a perfectly healed cut. Silence became the overwhelming presence in the room, until Lya smiled. "That… _that's amazing._ You… you said your name is Chitch? Mine's Lya. Thank you, you're amazing."

"Lya Friend! Chitch have Ger Friend and Lya Friend! Chitch HAPPY!" She glowed again, soft rays akin to the sun's emanating from her pale skin. The blue rose also glowed, and Ger's brows raised when he saw the half-leaf grow back to its original form. _What? How? Last time, it was withering away… I'll need to learn about it. Later. Right now, I have to deal with Lya._ His sister stood up again and whispered by his ear, eyes following the dancing elf. "_…Is she a Child? Of the Forest? I thought magic was dead. I thought magic wasn't real._"

"_A Child of the Forest? I–no, I don't think so. I don't know. She's an elf, I think."_ She turned to him now, fully facing him. She grinned. "An elf? What's–_doesn't matter. _We have to tell the family!"

"_No!"_ He grabbed her by the shoulders, restricting her to her place. Geralt grit his teeth, working out in his mind how to best word it. "We can't, and _we won't._ I love father, but I wouldn't trust him with this. We bring him a magical little girl, capable of _healing wounds_, he might get one of his ideas. Brandon's no better, he'd be nice, but he'd use her to win every fight. I'd say Ned, but he wouldn't waste time in reporting her life to father, and Ben's too young, he might let it slip. And _that's_ the family. Anyone else catches wind of it, and they might want to trap her, _hunt her._ I'll be damned if Astor Bolton or his son Roose get their hands on her. And all of that will happen _if_ they can even see her. Not everyone can."

Lya shook her head, brows furrowing, trying to think of a retort to his speech. Geralt took one look at Chitch, who looked at the two curiously. His eyes saddened, no matter how he tried to hide it. _"If you pluck all the leaves of that rose, she'll get much weaker. And if anything happens that can kill that flower, Chitch dies. I won't let that happen."_

Lya nodded slowly, and looked at the entity in a different light. She knelt in front of her and smiled softly. "Chitch? Is it true? Are you a part of that rose? I've never seen a blue rose. Do some people not see you, or is Ger lying?"

"ALL people not see Chitch. Until Ger. He was Guts. He saw me, he was friend. Now you see me, friend of Ger." Lya was sharp enough to understand that the child knew no better, but Ger saw something change in her face. "Guts? What's that mean?"

She pointed at Ger, who was on the verge of sweating. "Him Guts. Guts was friend. Chitch meet Guts again, but now Guts is Ger. Ger is friend!"

"Ger was Guts? What's she mean, Geralt?" Her eyes were sharp now, looking at him up and down. Geralt look to the side. "No idea."

"_Liar!_ I know that look, I know you're hiding something! Now, you're going to tell me, or I'm gonna–"

"No, _I'M NOT._ And neither are you." She took a step back from his glare. Geralt knew that look. That fear people had in his dream when he made a mean face. A beastly face. He had to shake it off. _Dreams and the real world are becoming less and less clear now._ "I _don't _know, Lya, not everything. Fuck, I don't know nearly enough. And what I _do _know, I have no reason to share with anyone. And if it's all true, you wouldn't believe me anyways if I told you how I found out."

"Alright, fine, but can you at least tell me how you found _her?_ How you found Chitch?" _How I found Chitch? That'll lead to more questions, but I can't afford to hide everything from her. Not if she's gonna keep this secret with me._ "I was in the Godswood today, before sunrise. I found her there. There was a rider– _don't ask, I don't know–_ a strange rider there. He had strange armor, so did his horse. His helmet looked like a skull from where I stood, but I'm sure that was just the fog getting in my eyes. He didn't make a sound and just disappeared. Where he left, there was a blue rose there. Never seen one before. It was on the ground, weak. The shadows probably left it starving. I don't know why, but something in my gut told me there was something about the flower, something I couldn't ignore. I brought it here, put it in a pot, and when the sun came up, Chitch was there."

Lya nodded, and he could tell she knew he was telling the truth. _At least the truth from the real world, not the dream world._ He let go of her shoulders and gave her a pleading look. "Lyanna… _no one can know about this._ No one. Promise me, Lya."

"I… I promise, Geralt. I won't tell anyone." He sighed in relief. The two stood awkwardly, Lya licking her lips to clean the dried blood that remained from her forgotten wound. She shrugged her mood off. "I best get going back to my room. Someone sees me here, they might start asking questions. Chitch shouldn't stay here, though. I know you don't let servants in the room, but you don't know if some new one doesn't know any better and comes here. She might like the flower and take it for herself. I don't think much of flowers and even _I_ think it's beautiful. We need a place to hide her."

"Agreed. It needs to be someplace where no one will pick it and no animal will eat it. Until we find a place like that, my room will do." The two nodded, Geralt walking her out his door. She turned around, scrutinizing a final, stoic glare. _"That's_ why you were acting strange this morning, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, I tried hiding that, but if you came here tonight, I'm sure I didn't fool you. Well, no one's bold enough to come looking for me when I'm in a mood save for you. Maybe Bran, but he didn't catch on, and if Ned did, he'd wait for me to speak about it. He won't do anything if I don't." Lya shook her head. "Still… why do you think this happened? Why you? Why now?"

He turned back to his room, where Chitch was waving goodbye to Lyanna from the top of her rose. He frowned. "I really don't know. But if the Gods have anything to do with it, I'd guess she's here to punish me for giving father so many gray hairs."

Lya laughed, giving a little wave to Chitch before turning back to her brother. She hugged him and walked away. Her voice was soft, hints of solemnity in it. _"Happy nameday, Geralt."_

**Author's Notes: So, Chitch is in the story. Her original purpose was Miura showing why Guts was repulsed by weakness, and I think with him by the point he got to Elfhelm, he's essentially gotten over it. Besides, she's just unique enough to be a direct link to Guts's old world without giving everything away (also, I have to be honest, her death was heartbreaking enough for me to take advantage of this story to bring her back). And Lyanna, with how free-spirited she is (and presumably, by virtue of a relationship with a very superstitious prince), I figured she could be a human capable of seeing elves (Chitch may be in Mundus, but elven magic still applies to her (more will be revealed in time)). Also, hope you liked our ominous knight's cameo, and if you've read Berserk, you know you haven't seen the last of him. Hell, his role is fundamental for the story.**

**Also, fun fact of a deviation I'm making to my story: blue roses didn't exist in Westeros in my story. Chitch's arrival is the arrival of blue roses in the North, and, soon enough, Westeros. (Also, I figured that a fighting figure like Lyanna Stark wouldn't like a flower in particular without any deeper reason, so that also ties that in).**

**The chapter itself wasn't all that intricate. Nothing worth noting happened in Guts's/Geralt's childhood that could merit a whole chapter, but he's thirteen now, and at an age where he can start acting more. You can imagine what the nightmares are about, and to answer some of your questions, no, Guts has not forgotten his life. If anything, I would describe it as strong amnesia. But in the back of his mind, back of his _soul,_ the truth is still there. There's a reason why he was born with a 'birthmark' on his neck. And with the proper triggers (enter Chitch), he may begin to remember more solidly, and he might start putting the pieces together. Not entirely, but in due time, he'll understand what it all means and how it plays a role in his new world. Naturally, this makes Guts somewhat out-of-character as Geralt. He is still Guts at heart, but he had a good enough life (in spite of the trauma of holding his mother's hand when she died) that he could become a better version of himself. But the more Geralt remembers Guts, the more certain _characteristics_ may show in his character. He'll never fully be Guts again, but that's natural. Guts from the Elfhelm Arc is entirely different from how he was in the Black Swordsman Arc, so you can expect a new Guts to come from all this, but his change will also be organic to the story and his character. So I hope this answers your questions about Guts's character.**

**I've read the whole manga, but I have to yet to see the Golden Age movies (I refuse to see the 2016-7 series), once I have the time, I've heard it's excellent. And as for the mysterious 'Guest' who commented four entire testaments in the reviews, I invite you to sign onto your account and PM me. If not, then I recommend you make an account, because there's a lot you've written which I agree with, but there's also plenty that I disagree with, and I'd like to have a better, two-sided conversation about it all. It seems very interesting, and you've certainly put a lot of time into writing it all.**

**As for Ethloc, Davie Wilson, winterwolf23543, and trollzor69, I think I've answered all questions/responded to your comments, and I'm grateful for your input. I hope to hear more from you.**

**So, I hope you've all enjoyed this chapter. If you haven't, by all means, tell me why, I'm open to criticism.**

**The Almighty Afroduck,**

**All Hail**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes: Well, this has grown _incredibly_ fast since I last posted a chapter. I did not expect to have over a hundred followers by this point, but cheers to that. Alright, so a couple of things I want to touch on.**

**The reason for this chapter's lateness is because my previous laptop decided to stop working (mid-quarantine). What really sucked was learning that the harddrive was damaged, and none of the documents ****for this story ****(including the first ten pages of this chapter) or any of my other stories could be recovered. So I had to recreate this from scratch while rewriting the main document I had written out for this story (essentially, the whole story boiled down to basic bulletpoints (I have multiple arcs planned, each one with several chapters)). You can imagine why this was essentially a roadblock for a while. The second most important is that I've been busy with the uni, and I'm just starting finals week (it ends on the 14th), so until then, I'll have no time for this. The third most important is that this chapter is not _quite_ filler, but it will be a necessarily slower chapter compared to others I have planned for the rest of the story (the Winterfell arc will be mostly like this).**

**Now, unto some of the notes reviewers have made, namely an important one: Lyanna Stark will NOT be a Mary Sue. Far from it. The thing is, Geralt gets along well with feisty, fighting personalities, and for lack of better words, Rickard has the tendency to spoil his children. That does not make her perfect or flawless, it just means she hasn't been in a situation where they're truly exposed.**

**Now, I can't speak too much about what the gods of Mundus are (and that's _if_ there are gods) because that would spoil plenty and it also wouldn't make sense right away. However, what you _do_ know is that there _is_ magic in Westeros (hence Guts's/Geralt's affinity for the Heart Tree whenever he has "nightmares"). As for his weapon, Dragon Slayer is quite literally stuck in another world, so Jeor Mormont's gift (an average greatsword but with good quality) will have to suffice. The topics of his past life, love interests and more will be answered with time. I'll answer what questions I can, but I won't spoil.**

**Last thing before starting the chapter- regarding the casting, there's one addition and one modification:**

**Benjen Stark - Ben Barnes (Joseph Mawle is great, but Ben Barnes would have an easier time being the _youngest_ of the Starks)**

**Chitch - Willow Shields (she simultaneously has an innocent appearance while having a sort of elegant, ethereal face (elven, if you will))**

**So without further ado, I bring you the Reborn fourth chapter.**

**Wildlings**

Geralt walked through the castle halls. It had only been a couple of weeks since his nameday, not even a full moon since. Still, there was much and more on his mind, a hundred and one things to mull over every night. He sighed, the air puffing from him almost as thick as smoke. It had been warm during his birthday, but winter had been traitorous, and just as during that day there had been running waters and sprouting grasses, icy gales had come and frozen them. It had been a source of conflict for the boy, given his tendency to be by the Heart Tree whenever he could. The weirwood's presence was about the only thing remaining that warded the nightmares that haunted him in his sleep. _They're getting bolder now too. Why is it that now every shadow I see, they're fucking moving?_

It had been a restlessness that had plagued him since, which had only led to further bouts between him and his father. He'd near been slapped by Rickard when he was found to have been sleeping under the Heart Tree the day after his nameday. _Are you mad, boy?! Have I not taught you that winter is a treacherous bitch, especially in the North?! You say you want to become a fighter, well it'll all be for naught if frostbite takes you first!_ And that had been the last time Geralt had slept there, though it was likely the most rest he'd ever gotten from a night in the past few months. Though every so often, Geralt would experience the fortune of the hellscapes within his mind being interrupted by _cawing_. Whenever he'd look, he'd see nothing special about the raven perched on the dead trees within his dreams, though a closer look would show him it observed him with three eyes. _Black falcons with white hawks in their chests, chained beasts in the shadows, and now a damned three-eyed raven. Can I not dream about a normal fucking battlefield for once?_

When his father had asked him his obsession with the sacred woods, Geralt wouldn't budge, and his father had begrudgingly accepted his silence. It was lost for a far fouler mood when the lord of Winterfell revealed the gift he'd promised his thirdborn the night before. _Never mind that then, Ger. About your nameday's gift… I can't promise it is entirely sure, but I've been reaching out to Starfall the past few months. I've been looking to see if you can't squire under Arthur Dayne, the current Sword of the Morning. As best as I understand it, he's becoming about as much of a household name as Barristan the Bold is, and you'd be hard-pressed to find a better instructor than one such as him. Hells, perhaps you could even be betrothed to one of his sisters and seal the bond between our houses. I hear Ashara is an unmatched beauty in the south, even next to the likes of Cersei Lannister and Elia Martell. You would be your own man, you'd be trained by a master swordsman, and you'd have a beautiful wife. How's that for a nameday gift? _

And that had perhaps been the only time Geralt had even been truly tempted to give in to one of his father's plots. He'd wanted to travel, though he could care less about the marriage, and to train with the Sword of the Morning… but then there was Chitch. And her flower. Had she appeared a day after the proposal, the answer would have been different. But fate was a cruel whore, and he found himself needing to refuse his father. _I can't leave her. Not now, not yet._ That had been one of the only times he'd ever witnessed his father losing his patience with him. _DAMN IT, BOY, DOES NOTHING EVER PLEASE YOU?! WOULD YOU LIKE A CASTLE, AN ARMY, THE WALL ITSELF?! WHAT WILL IT TAKE FOR YOU TO BE GRATEFUL FOR ONCE IN YOUR DAMN LIFE?!_

He'd not had dinner with his family that night, and a part of Geralt was sad that he could not spend that last night with Ned. But he'd do with seeing his silent brother the next morning, early before he left for the Vale again. And he stood his ground, despite his father's anger and disappointment, he remained adamant about remaining in Winterfell. It was that that 'belligerence' that had earned him a whole day to be locked in his room, though it wasn't so lonesome with Chitch to speak to, though it was somewhat unnerving. Lyanna had snuck into his room at night and the three had talked and she'd taken to Chitch as something between a mother and an older sister. And Lyanna had been the one to convince him to meet up with Ned.

Their father caught the three of them, though none of his anger had been left. Geralt felt guilt when he saw the bag under the lord's eyes, when he watched the silent sigh and just walk in the other way. But he'd be happy to be the unruly son of Rickard Stark if it meant keeping the elf safe. _I'm sorry father, but I'm sure you'd do the same in my place._ The day had been tense, and not a word was exchanged between father and son. They'd all met at Winterfell's gates to see Ned off, but silence followed soon after. He did not bother punishing Geralt a second day in a row, but his stance was colder to the thirdborn. He would remain that for another week, and the boy knew better than to aggravate him in that time.

When he was finally called to the solar, he'd been seated in front of his father's desk, Rickard having a sip of ale before turning to him. _Geralt… I'm sorry for how I spoke before. You're my son first and foremost, and I'll always love you, no matter our difference. But what I'm asking of you is to understand me. I have five children, each one with their own dreams and ideas, and I'm trying to make it so everyone is happy. Aye, that'd be easier if I just allowed you all to do as you please, and I'd be a pitiful lord and father to do so. You've a right to do as you choose, Geralt, but with that right comes a set of duties as well. Winterfell… the North has given you plenty, it has made you what you are. You cannot take as you like and turn your back on those who've been supporting you, caring for you._

_I'm at wit's end, Geralt. I don't know what to do with you. You're not like other boys, I've known that for years now. You ask for little, and you do plenty. You ought to learn to act as a lord, as Ned is doing in the Vale, as Ben will do not long from now. Gods forbid I lose any of you before my time comes, but I will be at ease if I leave this world knowing each of you can thrive on your own. And the Daynes were about my best bet for you. Marriage and mastery of war are almost one in that house and I know you'd do well with them, even with your bouts of irreverence. But I cannot be patient with you all my life, Geralt. I cannot wait for you and treat you as a child until you learn what needs to be done._

Geralt had been nervous his father had already written to the Daynes then, that he had already consented to the match without his say. _…I won't be sending you to Starfall. I know you well enough you may just escape the soldiers I send you with, bury a hole beneath the Heart Tree and spend the rest of your days there. I cannot force you to do something you won't commit to, not yet, but my patience is at an end. You're three-and-ten, so I'll make you a deal. If you come to me in less than four years and tell me what you'll make of yourself and how you'll contribute to your family and to House Stark, I'll never try to have you betrothed or squired again. If you don't, however, you'll ride farther north and swear yourself to the Night's Watch. The vows may be severe, but that is a place of honor, and House Stark has kept good ties with the Watch for thousands of years. They'd do you as much good as you'd do them. This is my final offer, Geralt._

And he had conceded. It was fair, he understood the source of his father's grievances. And though he had no idea on what to do with himself, four years was enough time for him to find out. More importantly, four years would be enough time to find out what he'd do with the whimsical, magical child. Hopefully. _Something's gotta change in the next four years… right? Well, Lord Commander Geralt Stark doesn't sound bad either. But if I take the black, it'll be by my own doing, not because I had no choice._ He shook his head. No point in worrying about that at the moment. If nothing else, at least he was on good terms with his father again. For all his intensity, Rickard Stark was a man quick to love and prone to forgetting grudges. And so, Geralt remained in Winterfell, walking across its echoing halls. Another faster set of echoes snapped him from his trance. "_Geralt, GER!_ Where have you been! Come on, I have to show you something!"

"Fuck off, Lya."

"_You fuck off!_ This is important! Now come on!" And without any say, Lyanna grabbed Geralt by the arm and dragged him back to her room. There was Chitch, and her blue rose. The night after his nameday, the two had agreed on the She-Wolf taking the elf to her room. Lyanna Stark was not a girl that loved flowers and knights and songs, but it looked a great deal more normal with her than with if Geralt was caught to have a sudden interest in a rose. And Chitch danced and waved at the two, happy for her late morning visitors. "Ger Friend, Lya Friend! All friends are here!"

"That's right, Chitch, we're all here. Now show Ger what you showed me this morning! Show him!" Chitch smiled wide and ran over to her rose before pointing at the stem. Beyond plentiful leaves, nothing out of the ordinary, Geralt had to squint his eyes to see a… growth. Something budding, fresh and young, thicker than any leaf's arm. It took a moment for him to realize what it was. "…Chitch, are you growing another flower?"

"She is! She's going to grow bigger and stronger and prettier, isn't that right Chitch?" Before the little elf could answer, Lyanna swooped her in her hands and planted a kiss on top of her head. The little girl could only giggle and smile and say something about '_poppo_' while glowing. Geralt felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, but he stopped himself to look seriously at the girl. Grabbing one of Lyanna's wrists, she understood with a look to put the magical girl back on her pot. He knelt in front where her pot was placed, leveling his eyes to hers. "Chitch… have you been alone lately, or have you been with others?"

"Chitch not alone! Chitch has Ger and Lya Friends!" He struggled to keep his eyes from rolling upwards, but instead found himself smiling instead. "I know, but when we- _when Ger and Lya Friends_ are not here, are you alone, or are there any more elves? Any more like you, like Chitch?"

"Like Chitch?" She stopped and looked up and down, to the sides and out the window, finger over her mouth. She finally turned to Geralt and shook her head. "When Chitch alone and Ger and Lya Friends are gone, Chitch is only with Chitch and the Buzz-Buzzes!"

"…The Buzz-Buzzes? Chitch, you don't mean _bees,_ do you? Small, black and yellow with little wings?" When Lyanna asked the question, the two siblings shared a look. Chitch only beamed and nodded eagerly. "Yes! Buzz-Buzzes come and tickle my flower whenever I have sweet kunkun! They come when the sky is full of poppo, but don't come until I have more kunkun."

Geralt stood back up and had a silent stare-off with his sister. It took only a moment for the two to burst out laughing. Chitch stared at them in wonder and confusion before she decided to join in the mirth as well. Lyanna swooped her up again and cuddled her close. "This is _great,_ Chitch! Those buzz-buzzes you saw are called bees, and bees help spread flowers and make them grow more. Soon you'll have many flowers that are all yours!"

Chitch giggled and Geralt smiled a little farther from the two. His thoughts made it drop as scenarios came through in his head. _Tickling isn't the same as… She's not with child, that's for sure. If that's the case, then that means that there's not gonna be a sudden outbreak of elves in Westeros. If she has more flowers to herself, then, does that mean she can use more? Is she bound to her first flower, or can she be attached to any?_ Lyanna put her down again. "Well, I'm glad you told us, and I'm glad you're making more friends, Chitch."

"Buzz-bu-_bees_ are nice, but they're not friends like Lya and Ger are. Lya and Ger Friends make me happy!" _Finally, she's not saying 'Chitch this' and 'Chitch that'. Now if she can drop the 'Friends' every time she speaks to us, Lya might've worked a miracle._ Geralt smiled at the elf, but his voice grew stern when he spoke to her. "Now remember Chitch, the moment we're gone…"

"Chitch stay by flower and hide from others who come in room!" She declared happily. He nodded at that, and gently rubbed her head with one calloused finger. He put a hand on Lyanna's shoulder and she nodded. The two waved the elf goodbye and Chitch waved from the top of the rose before sitting by the smile and looking out the window. She claimed that during the day there was always '_poppo_', even with the clouds in the way. _Best she enjoy it while she can. This winter's a cunt, and the nights are only growing longer._

"She didn't seem like she was having children, do you think the roses spreading will make her stronger? Maybe her life won't depend on the rose alone…" When he looked at his sister, he gave a tired sigh and shrugged. "If we're lucky… if _she's_ lucky, then yes. We won't find out until the second one grows and the others the bees took grow too. That being said, Chitch has a better gut-feeling than most. She's afraid of rats because they want to eat her flower. She likes bees because they tickle her and spread her seeds. If we find another rose, I'm sure she'll be able to tell us if it gives her 'poppo' or something like that. If it does… hell, that'll make things easier."

"Oh,_ Ger, _if only the ladies of the North could see this side of you, they'd be swooning at the thought of you fathering their children." The false sweetness of her voice was only accentuated by the teasing pinching of his cheeks. Geralt felt the vein in his forehead popping, but resorted to retaliating by squeezing her own face at her cheekbones. "And if the lords of the North saw the She-Wolf of Winterfell _playing with flowers _and _raising little dolls,_ then they might just have hope they'll make a wife of you yet."

She yelped and growled and pounced him. She succeeded in tackling him to the ground, but Geralt very well knew her tricks now, and her strength would never match his. It wasn't long before he wound up on top of her, mildly twisting her arm. She yelled and fought, but Geralt twisted a little harder. "Yield."

"_Fuck off, Geralt!"_ She snarled. He twisted harder this time, and her squeal betrayed her conviction. "Yield, Lyanna."

"_Fine, now get off me!"_ He did, and she immediately got up, rubbing her left arm by the elbow. Her pouting made him laugh. "At this rate, you're never gonna win, Lya. You howl like a wolf, but you don't bite."

"Don't worry, _I'll bite next time."_ The arm was fine, but Geralt could tell the wound to his sister's pride was far greater. His patience, however, was running thin to be the patient teacher. "No, you idiot. I don't mean biting and scratching, you'll never win like that. No matter what you do, I'll be stronger. No matter what you eat, I'll be bigger. So get your head out of your ass and _start thinking._ Use your speed, use your flexibility. _Play to your strengths,_ or at this rate, you're never gonna win."

"Win what? Who's the best wildling? Who's the Dragonknight and who's the Conqueror? By all means, I want to see what victory looks like in your little game." The two froze, turning slowly to find their father at the end of the hall. His arms were crossed and his face was as if carved from stone, but there was something akin to amusement in his eyes._ Fuck, we've been caught. FUCK. Wait, he only mentioned the fighting, he said nothing about Chitch._ "N-_no,_ Father, we were just-uh, we were only-"

"Only what? Having a friendly round of cyvasse? See, I was just wandering where I'd placed my set and spent the morning looking for it. How about you, Geralt, have you been teaching her the ways of cyvasse?" His father sounded serious, but Geralt knew too well that he was having fun prying the truth out of them. _And if he is, then it can't be that bad. We'll just apologize and be on our way._ "No, father. I've been training Lyanna the sword in the mornings, not cyvasse."

"Is that right? I imagined as much." Lyanna shot him a furious glare, to which he rolled his eyes to. _Can't you see he's forgiving about it, you idiot? If he was angry, we'd know. And you're shit at lying._ What brought the silent tension to an end was the sound of steel being brandished. The two turned to their father, who now had a sword in each hand. In one was Ice, the family sword of House Stark. _I've always wanted to try Valyrian Steel._ The other sword, by comparison, was small, short and meager. It was blunted, perfect for practice. He tossed that one at her feet. "Go on then, Lyanna. Show me what you know. All you need to do is to strike me once with your sword."

"Wh-what?" Geralt saw their father raise Ice, the end of the greatsword facing the ceiling. The lord of the castle kept an unmoving stance, defensive. His face was the Wall, and his eyes were steel. When Lyanna didn't move, he raised an expectant brow. _Move, damn it._ He gave her a soft push to where the sword lay on the ground. She whipped her head back at him, startled. Geralt himself was nervous, but managed to keep himself composed. "Show him what you've learned, Lya."

She swallowed before looking back down, where the small practice sword lay at her feet. She picked it up slowly by its hilt, turning to the frozen Stark lord ten feet away from her. _One hit, Lyanna. Just one hit, that's all you need._ She took a step, then another, then she raised her sword and screamed when she charged him. Geralt cringed and bit the inside of his cheeks. _You're gonna lose._ And when she brought the sword down on their father with all her strength, it was all Rickard needed to do was shift Ice to its side. The blunted steel clashed against its Valyrian brethren and bounced farther back than it had started. Lyanna stumbled, nearly falling on her back when Geralt stopped her.

"_Dammit Lyanna, he's testing you, testing us, can't you see that? He's stronger, bigger, and he's seen battle, you will NOT win against him if you throw yourself against him. Act fast, Lya, and aim for where he can't reach. You know this, you can do this."_ Geralt's whispers had been brief, but Lyanna turned to him with a fire she'd lacked earlier. She nodded, and the two turned back to Rickard, who remained unmoving, Ice straight as a pillar again. She took longer at approaching him the second time around, and Geralt had hope. He lost it when she started running again, sword above her head. _She's fucked._ Both him and his father were surprised when she never struck downwards. She missed Ice and made to strike at his feet. But their father was fast, and Ice moved in a pendulum to keep the steel from hitting his legs.

He took a step back, and Lyanna immediately swung upwards to catch him at his elbow. Ice intervened again, and she aimed downwards again. Geralt frowned. _You're started good, Lya, but he's reading you._ And with each strike, Lyanna grew more tired, and Rickard grew faster. _You're too easy to read, and he'll outlast you. Hell, he's faster than you too. All you need is one hit, Lya. Just one._ Ice went up and down, faster than her sword, but never striking her. Lyanna was panting by the end of it, and Geralt had thought her fight was over. But if there was one thing he knew, was that she was one of the few if not the only other Stark to match his unconventional ways.

About to move Ice from down to up again, Lyanna put her sword behind his and grabbed the blunted end. Putting her weight to her fall, Rickard looked with wide eyes as the family greatsword threatened to slip from his grasp. When it was low enough, Lyanna slipped over it and put a boot on top of the blade. Their father had no time to react when she hit him on the shoulder. And that brought her cheers of victory. Even Geralt laughed. _You crazy bitch, you actually did it._ Both smiles fell when their father dropped Ice, face turning from red to purple. Lyanna fell, the sudden drop of Ice leaving her without balance. Rickard immediately grabbed her by the elbow and stood her up. _"HAVE YOU GONE MAD?! WERE YOU TRYING TO LOSE AN ARM OR MAKE A CRIPPLE OF YOURSELF?! MEN HAVE LOST HANDS AND WHETSTONES TRYING TO SHARPEN VALYRIAN STEEL!"_

"I-_I just-"_ All of Lyanna's passion and enthusiasm died, and Geralt could see tears threatening to escape their eyes. And their father would have none of it. _"YOU JUST WHAT?! PRAYED YOU WOULD WIN?! BET EVERYTHING ON A FOOLISH, DANGEROUS GAMBLE?! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!"_

"_I just wanted to show you, father. I wanted to prove to you that I could be like Bran and Ned, like Ger and Ben."_ This time, she couldn't keep herself from sniffling. Geralt sighed and frowned. He put a hand on her shoulder and faced Rickard. "I taught her to fight like that, father. I taught her to look for opportunities where she sees them and play to her strengths. The only way she could have won was by outsmarting you, and she did exactly that."

The two had turned to him, and it took the better part of Geralt's inner strength to face his father's intense glare and not falter. The minute was long, the passing seconds even longer. Eventually, Rickard's face returned to its original color, and his eyes closed. His chest heaved with a slow sigh, and he faced the floor. Geralt only relaxed when he opened his eyes again, his usual, calmer demeanor returning to him. "…It _was_ absolutely mad and reckless… but you _did _land a hit on me, Lyanna. I had not expected you to. Knowing you and knowing Geralt, I had half a mind to have you trained under Ser Rodrik as well, show you _proper _fighting. But then your brother's _eccentric_ teaching style served you better in this case. After seeing her victory, Geralt, I've half a mind to slap you and the rest of me wants to praise you."

"What do you mean, father?" Lyanna was no longer frightened, but she still treaded the conversation carefully. Geralt could see hope returning to her eyes. Rickard shook his head. "It's your lord father's way of saying that if you'll be fighting your whole damn life, you best be doing it the right way. You may continue training with Geralt, and I'll speak to Cassel about his new student as well. Your brother will continue to teach you as well, but any of these _questionable_ techniques that you're taught or come up with yourself you'll only do _if _they're approved by Rodrik or myself. And if you miss even a _single _sewing session or history session with Maester Luwin, there will be no more of this. The same goes for you too, Geralt. Do I make myself clear?"

"_THANK YOU, FATHER!"_ And just like that, Lyanna wrapped her arms around their father's neck. Rickard's casual smile returned and his booming laughter echoed across the hall as he carried the girl with one arm. _Fuck, he's got us where he wants us. He made that damn test just so he could own something we value so we listen to him better. _But Geralt smiled. It was fair play, and he'd sooner rather his father found out about their lessons than about the otherworldly girl in the castle. "Father, how'd you know?"

At that, Rickard stopped laughing, but kept his smile. The raise of his right brow showed he was… unimpressed. _"Geralt,_ do you really _believe _I don't know what goes on in my own castle, especially concerning the whereabouts of my children? I didn't believe you took me that much for a fool, I ought to be stricter with you for that. The happenings in Winterfell _do not_ escape me, and if they did, they'd have to be better hidden than your little secret. Lyanna's sudden dirty cloths for boys and the maidens reporting fresh bruises on her body in the morning left me with a clear idea of what was going on. The fact that Lyanna stopped asking a year and a half ago to have lessons with Rodrik was another clue. But what _really_ gave it away was her defending your choosing to stay here when you refused fostering in Starfall. It wasn't hard to realize she didn't want to lose her personal master-at-arms."

He saw Lyanna blushing furiously, and Geralt himself felt himself grow pale. _She wasn't arguing about her training, father._ But he sighed in relief, or shame, rather, to confirm his father's suspicions. _I can't keep too many secrets for him. Father is sharper than people assume him to be, and that's his advantage. Better he knows this here and now. If we kept hiding things from him, everything would spill out sooner rather than later, and no one can know about Chitch. No one._ He loved his father, but he had no idea how he would take to the elf's existence. He'd been unfair in assuming he'd use her for his gain, that wasn't true. But whatever he did with the girl, he'd have more eyes on him than his thirdborn son would ever suffer. Someone would learn the truth, and he'd be damned if she was captured by Astor Bolton to heal himself from battle wounds. _Or worse, heal his victims so his playthings last longer._ "I understand father, it won't happen again."

The look Rickard gave him made his stomach drop. _Fuck, he knows I'm lying._ He remained that way for a few seconds, but he shook his head. "I'm sure it won't. Now, pack Lord Mormont's sword and head to the armory. Get yourself a shield as well, and find a horse. The Umbers reported a small wildling company, if it can be called as much, that breached their defense. They only found out through the trail of corpses they left behind, and they haven't been captured in the Dreadfort. The Glovers have asked for our aid, and they've scouted where they are in the Wolfswood. You'll be there to watch how battles are done, _not to fight,_ so don't get any ideas. You'll be accompanying myself and Brandon, as well as thirty of our men."

Something within Geralt's mind clicked then. Some mysterious yearning for his place in the world. _Fuck, that sounds strange._ But still, he knew in his heart that he was a man of battle and fighting, that the war grounds were where he truly belonged. He frowned. _He said I'm not to fight, but anything can happen in the battlefield, and I've been training with Jeor Mormont's sword since he gave it to me on my nameday. _He had yet to name it. He figured it would only earn a name once it had actual blood spilt unto its glistening steel. His heart raced, and his father picked up on it. "Geralt, I mean it, _no _fighting_ unless _it's absolutely necessary. Death should never be something to want for, and staying in the distance is safest for you. But you ought to be acquainted with the way of the world, and men can be as noble as they can act like beasts. We ride at noon."

"Yes father, I understand." It was only a half-truth that he mentioned. There were dreams of him where he had faced a hundred battles, where he had fought battalions of men and hordes of inhumans. It still remained in him, but he ensured his father would not know. Instead, he rode to the armory, and then to the stables. Once he was where the group of his father's men was, he found himself nearing the front of the soldiers. There was his father and there was Brandon, both keeping very different stances of the coming battle. The lord began. "Men, I'll keep this brief. There are wildlings in the Wolfswood. We'll take handle them, capture them or execute them if needs be, but we'll not play the part of butchers to them. If we attack them and treat them as animals, we'd be no better than the wildlings themselves. We should be there in a quarter day's ride, so if all goes well, we'll return at night to our wives and children."

"You hear that, men? We'll do well to act as good soldiers and good men, but if they should challenge us, _we'll defeat them _AND we'll leave them broken and beaten! We are northmen, and I'll be damned if we're made fools of! Worse, _we'll_ be damned if we allow these savages to take our wives and mothers and daughters with impunity and kill out fathers, brothers and sons with no punishment! We'll show them the way of the North, the _true _North!" At his brother's shouts, the soldiers cheered loudly, but Rickard's tight smile did not escape Geralt's eye as it had Brandon's. _He does not agree with his words, but knows better than to show disagreement between lord and heir in front of their men._ He was sure of it. There was no mirth in Rickard's eyes, no agreement to their words, not overtly anyways. He supported his firstborn, but no farther than that.

"Very well, then. Soldiers, we leave, we act, and we return. Everyone comes home and the Glovers will toast to our valor tonight. No more than that." And with that, Rickard rode off, Brandon to his right and Geralt to his left. _No fighting unless it's absolutely necessary. _Geralt frowned. He knew better than to go against his father's words, especially with how lenient he'd been with him the past month. But sitting back and watching other men do the fighting for him, _protecting_ him… _I won't have anyone die on my account._ He sighed. The more he thought about it, the better he realized the hidden barb of his father's mercy. _He's allowing me freedom in plenty things so he can make sure he gets in return what he requires from me. _

The horses moved steadily along with the sun. It was a few hours away from the twilight when he finally started seeing smoke in the distance. _Fires._ Rickard spared him a look. Geralt took a moment to realize what he meant, but he nodded his head somewhat annoyed. He let his horse slow down and kept a firm grip on his shield. Four of the men, in turn, surrounded him. Brandon himself rode a little farther from father, and he was flanked by two soldiers. By that moment, he could start smelling the scents of roasting game. _We're here now. No going back._ He could see the figures not so far away. They had at best half a dozen horses, none of them mounted. The figures huddling about outnumbered them _greatly_, far more than he'd expected. Between three and four times the amount of men father commanded. Something in Geralt's stomach churned. _They brought women. And children._

Rickard rode closest, by which time the wildlings had immediately stood up from their campfires, crude weapons in hand. A few of the men had good steel, likely from the patrols the Umbers had reported dead. A _woman_ also boasted of one. His mouth turned into a thin line. The women armed like the men, and numbered near as many. It was only the children and young ones that looked afraid and unprotected, but even they had a rougher look on them than most boys Geralt's age. _Thirty armored and mounted against fewer than a hundred unorganized foot soldiers. By all means, this should be an easy victory. But against wildlings…_ A few started aiming their bows.

"_HOLD!"_ His father's voice thundered through the forest. _The Lord's voice._ There were times when Geralt would practice with Brandon shouting at one another hundreds of feet away to train their voices. If they ever commanded in battle, they would have need of such lungs. And somehow, their well-tempered father had one of the most powerful voices Geralt had heard in any man. It was enough to catch the wildling's attention and keep them from attacking. "To whom should I speak to? I assume you must have a leader to have come so far down south in a camp that large."

"We're freefolk, ye damn _southron._ We have no leaders, each man is his own! We ain't no lords or ladies, we choose to live as we like. Now leave us, else we gut ye like we did the boars in these woods!" The man that spoke had greyed hair, sporting holes in a rancid smile. He stood half a head taller than the second tallest wildling. The good helm on his head, the better furs and the good steel let Geralt know he was one of the better fighters. Brandon was quick to get his sword out, and the wildlings grew tense. Rickard was even faster to stretch his own sword, preventing his firstborn through. Seconds were long, but the look their father had given Brandon was enough to make him retract his steed, though not hide his sword. Rickard took a deep breath, tone still amiable. "Aye, but not every man is fit for such a task. And to keep the women and the children alive, surely you must have _chosen_ the one to lead your band. The freefolk may have no lords, but they had chosen kings in older times."

"Aye, it ain't a man who led this lot south, no keep your mouth shut Holrin, this lot we won't win against. Not in these lands, not in this land, not against their mounts." The woman wielding the steel stepped up, and when Holrin growled at her, all she gave was a glare and the brute backed away. She was… pretty, in a strange way. _She would be of an age with mother if she were still alive._ She had messy black hair, kept in messy dreadlocks, and her skin was almost milk. Her eyes, however, were what set her apart from most. Between blue and grey, almost close to the Boltons' own shade. "My name's Arla, and we mean to ride south, as far away from the damn Wall as we can."

"From your journey, it would seem that way. I am Rickard Stark, and I'm afraid I will have to ask you to come to Winterfell. One of my men reported dead scouts farther north, and a village raided and pillaged in the Gift. From the looks of your furs and steel, it would not take much to guess which hand dealt the crimes." Holrin meant to growl again, but Arla cut him off. "Aye, the men with the giants on their chests? We killed them after they meant to rape our women."

"_LIAR!_ The Umbers are an honored family, they would not lower themselves to–" Again, Rickard raised his hand, and Brandon held his tongue. Rickard had a severe look on his face. "The reports came of the corpses, bled out from the wounds where they had been gelded. I will ask this once, Arla, out of respect for the strength of your people and the will to come so far south. Did the scouts truly mean to take you and the women of this group dishonorably?"

Arla took a look back at some of the faces there. Geralt paled when he looked at the sight of some of the women. Bruised eyes, swollen lips. The ones with arms and legs mildly exposed sported scratches. _They could be lying, might just be them fighting between each other. But if that were the case, then this Arla might've just killed the men._ Either ways, Geralt hated of thinking of the implications. Arla leveled a look to Rickard before she spat on the ground. "I was leading the men and spearwives in the hunt while the old and young women were gathering the berries and watching the children. When we came back, the scouts were having their way with them."

"Then it was an act of self-defense and just cause. I appreciate your honesty, and expect much the same from my next question if this is to remain a bloodless bout. Did you or did you _not_ torch a village, butcher the men and children and _rape _the women?" Arla remained silent, but that was all Geralt needed to hear. _They pillaged first. Fitting they'd receive the same from the Umbers._ He couldn't condone what the scouts did, but he felt numb towards them all. Holrin finally spoke up. "We're _freefolk, _shit lord. We _take_ as we please, and if they wasn't able of fightin' back, that's _their fault._"

"Is _that_ the way of the freefolk? Sounds like a terrible way to live. By that matter, any man strong enough to rape your mother, sisters and daughters should be _free_ to do so." Horlin started stomping towards Rickard, but it took one punch from Arla to get him to back down. The large man yelped and held his bloody nose, and Arla looked at Rickard with a tired look. "Aye, that's the way of the freefolk. We never had the chance to learn the _southron_ way when we were left to be born, freeze and die north of the Wall. We've heard the likes of crows and 'northmen' that they know cold better than anyone. You've never spent _winter_ beyond the Wall. You haven't seen men eat their wives and children when the game hides and the storm's too strong. We ain't a pretty people, we're survivors, and we mean to keep surviving for our own."

"And where's it end, Arla? Was the village in the Gift the first or the last to suffer from your survival? What will your own freefolk have to endure when they face scouts and soldiers _crueler _than the ones you've encountered? Believe me, there are plenty worse you'll face if you continue marching south. But you seem like a woman of reason, if nothing else, and the like that lives the way of the freefolk because you never had the opportunity to do otherwise. So heed my words, _this is your chance._ Abandon your strength, abandon your pride. You will face justice in Winterfell, just as the scouts you've encountered had. But if you come willing, your women and children will be _free_ from a life of cold and hunger, the life you lot have survived. Come with us, and you'll not want for food nor blood. Let there be an end to this cruelty. We were once all kinsmen, descended from the First Men. Let us _act_ like kinsmen."

The freefolk were tense, and Geralt could see the beaten women sharing glances, and the children had yet to let go of the rabbit legs and stag meat they held. The men frowned, but most turned to Arla, who held a conflicted look. The grip on her sword was tight, but she looked at one of the children of their lot. He was small, redhaired, and held pale grey-blue eyes. Her eyes. When she turned back to Rickard, she bit her lips. "Promise me the women and children shall be safe."

"On my word as a Stark. They are young and innocent of all crimes." Geralt felt his eyes widen when he saw Arla stabbing her sword in the soil. Many of the spearwives did the same, and even a few of the men as well. _Father truly has a gift for words when he means it._ Holrin only growled. _"Dumb cunt. _If ye want to spread your legs for the _Stark_ bastard and breed his lot, then you're a fuckin traitor to the freefolk. _The freefolk don't kneel!"_

And with that, he grabbed a makeshift spear, and chucked it. Arla screamed at him, and Geralt felt his heart stop. Rickard raised his shield and the spear breached through, stopping inches from his face. He was alive and unharmed, but the damage had been done. Brandon let out a scream of rage and charged, sword in hand. When he rode to meet the two, he swung at the pair of wildlings in front. Arla had dodged, fast, but Holrin wasn't so fast. Holrin may have been six-and-a-half feet tall, but Brandon was short of six feet and on horseback. The brute had just enough time to reach for his sword, but Brandon's swing had been fierce enough to drive it back and scrape his helmet off. His ear came off with it. Holrin held his head and screamed. Chaos erupted.

Before he knew it, Geralt instinctively rode forwards, shield on his left hand, Lord Mormont's gift in the right. His father's words escaped his mind, and he met Brandon before they could surround him. The wildlings were riled up now, and intent on surrounding them. Many of the Stark soldiers were already riding some of the men and spearwives down, cutting them with ease. But the archers were better shots than Geralt had expected, and more than a few of the riders were shot down. The ones that hadn't been impaled in the head or the neck were surrounded once they fell onto the ground, and the wildlings proved to be as brutal as the men were skilled.

When Arla aimed at Brandon with speed and fury, Geralt's sword stopped its tracks. _Fuck, she's not supposed to be that strong._ Geralt met her match for match, blow for blow. Holrin had stabbed Brandon's horse in that time, and his brother fell with a cry. The moment Geralt spared a look at him, seeing he was fine and taking the fighting against the brute on foot, he deflected a dangerous slash with his shield. Strong enough to knock him back and loosen his helmet. When he stood, Arla's eyes filled with regret. _She didn't expect_ _me to be so young._ A part of him yearned for the fight, but thoughts of his father came through. _"Stand down. You can't win, so just toss the sword."_

"I can't do that while your _soldiers_ are killing my people." She swung again and Geralt rolled out of the strike. _I mistook her as weak because she's a woman and Holrin's twice her size. But if she's a woman and she leads a band of wildling's herself, I can't underestimate her._ He loosened his shield and tossed it at Holrin's head, who staggered from the attack. By that point, Brandon removed his sword arm, but neither that nor his scream mattered. He was against Arla. _I must make her yield. It's the only way the killing stops._ And so they fought on even footing. Geralt had no shield weighing him down and he used the greatsword twohanded and freely, and Arla lost the sympathy that slowed her strikes earlier. Rickard roared, but three wildlings and two spearwives surrounded him.

"You want this to stop, _you make this stop! _They're _your_ people. If you can't command them now, then you never could've from the start. My father's men won't kill your children, but _your son_ might die if we keep on fighting!" Arla's eyes widened, and she looked at the chaos. The women and the children were huddled and away from the lot, few of them with knives in hand. They were scared, and the men and spearwives were falling by the lot. For every Stark soldier that fell, six wildlings took his place. Almost a third of the fighting forces had fallen, and Arla screamed. "_ENOUGH! NO MORE!_"

The soldiers and wildlings stopped to look at her. With shame and defeat, she threw her sword on the ground. The wildlings paused, made pained faces and did the same. Geralt fell back when he felt Holrin charge him and hold him with one arm, knife against his neck. _"I AIN'T FUCKIN DONE HERE! I NEED ME SOME SNOW AND ALE, MY FUCKIN ARM HURTS! GET IT NOW, OR THIS LITTLE RUNT'S NECK WILL BE AS BLOODY AS I AM! AND WHY ARE YE LISTENING TO THAT BITCH ARLA?! THESE ARE THE CUNTS WHO LOCKED US OUT OF THE REST O' THE WORLD AND LEFT US TO ROT!_"

Rickard had a look of fear in his face, and Brandon wasn't faring any better. Holrin may have had one arm left, but the left arm was still strong enough to hold him in his place. Geralt took deep breaths. He denied fear its due. Instead he met Brandon's gaze, only a few feet away from him. _His sword's long enough._ He looked directly at his sword until his brother noticed. He nodded upward and with one hand counted down. _Three._ He could feel the blade cold against his neck. _Two._ The point was piercing the skin. _One._ A faint line of blood seeped out. _Now._ He shifted and hit Holrin in his stump. The brute howled and his grip loosened. Geralt shoved his arms away and Brandon swung the sword. The two fell, though his head rolled away.

Geralt got up, sword in hand to find Brandon with a horrified look on his face. Arla stood with a knife in hand, not far from where Holrin had been standing. Blood poured from her neck. _She meant to save me. FUCK._ She dropped the knife in her hand and used it to hold her neck. With the other, she reached out to Brandon, shaking her head. He ran over to hold her, and she shook her head. She was dead after that. The Wild Wolf had never looked so broken. The small shadow that jumped from the trees onto Brandon was too fast for him to dodge, the knife in its hand coming with hateful intent. Geralt impaled it with his sword, and the knife never reached Brandon.

Removing it, he found the redhaired, pale-eyed boy on the ground, his stomach weeping red, his eyes weeping white. _She hadn't been reaching out to Brandon. _He let out a pitiful whimper before Geralt realized what Arla had tried to do. He dropped Lord Mormont's sword and rushed to the child. Now there was no more noise in the battlefield, no one else giving a fight. All that was left was Geralt, holding the little wildling boy's hands. He could have been younger than Benjen. _I'm sorry,_ he meant to say. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. The little boy whimpered and coughed. He met his mother's fate a few moments after. No tears threatened to come from Geralt. His eyes were dry, and his soul was void. He didn't react when he heard his father roar.

"_ENOUGH! IN THE NAME OF ALL THE DAMN GODS, ENOUGH OF THIS! HAVE ENOUGH PEOPLE NOT SUFFERED YET?! LET THERE BE AN END OF THIS! ENOUGH, I SAID!"_ His father's rage had disarmed the remaining wildlings left, those who could fight, at least. Geralt didn't see, but he could hear more swords dropping. He could hear knives dropping. He could hear the soldiers grabbing chains and ropes, he could see them out of the line of his sight coming closer to the wildlings, who did not move any longer. Geralt remained where he knelt. He grasped the unmoving, little hands fiercely. _Stupid kid, STUPID KID._ He clenched his teeth, and loathed to think he would have done the same had his mother been slain in front of him. He was shaking, but his eyes remained dry still. He was breathing fast, faster than he should have. _I'm not running, I'm not out of breath._ When Brandon placed his hand on Geralt's shoulder, he hit his arm away. _Go away, damn you. I can't leave him!_ His heart was pounding, and his grip never loosened.

It took the combined effort of his father and his brother to make him release the little boy's hands. He heard his father speak again, his tone morose. "You lot will never wield swords again, but if you'll want to bury your kin, do so now."

"We don't bury our own. We burn them. We don't want them coming back." The one that spoke was one of the surviving men, tall, lean, bald and earless. He was solemn, he even stood upright and proper, at least by wildling standards. Rickard was brief in his orders. "Then gather some wood and handle their bodies. If you want to pay respects, now's the time. Either that, or they'll be gone by the hour of the wolf."

On their way back, Geralt rode next to Rickard. His expression had not changed, and all he could think of was the blood on his hands. The little boy's blood. _I didn't even know his name._ He did not know if that made it better or worse. Brandon himself refused to take a horse after losing his. Instead, he walked to the right of Rickard and Geralt, next to a horse carrying the bodies of three of their soldiers. The ride was silent, and the wildlings offered no further fight. By the time they had returned to Winterfell, Rickard said soft words to Geralt that he didn't hear. Brandon could barely look at him before apologizing and following the men leading the corpses. His father, in turn, led the captured wildlings, many sporting broken looks. He didn't say anything to Lyanna when he returned to their hall. He didn't spare a look at Benjen when the boy greeted him. The only thing he did was shut himself in his room, look at his bloody hands and scream.

**Author's Notes: I remember someone asking something along the lines of if A Song of Ice and Fire would be more forgiving to Guts/Geralt than Berserk. The simple answer is yes, simply because of the fact that next-to-nothing in Westeros could match the horrors of Midland and the Astral Plane. The longer answer is yes, but "yes" doesn't mean he's exempt from the other (comparatively milder) horrors that Mundus has (the name I gave for the world where Westeros is (because Planetos just doesn't sound that good)). Once again, comparatively little has happened from a narration stand point, but as I've stated before, with few exceptions, Winterfell is not the most interesting place to be in during this time. A few important events are worth noting, and I've found a... _unique_ way of making Geralt's teenage years interesting. You'll know about it in two chapters, with the end of the Winterfell arc. That being said, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter, and feel free to comment what you liked and what you'd change.**

**The Almighty Afroduck,**

**All Hail**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: Still goin' strong. This chapter is notably more fun than the previous ones (though not necessarily happier). We're approaching the end of this arc (notably the shortest one in this story) before we get to the real kicker. Before it starts, I want to address some reviews.**

**For starters, to Dyliokhan, I sincerely hate that your review made me laugh, but it did. On another note, someone called this the best Berserk+GOT/ASOIAF crossover they've ever read, which implies it's the best among (get this) all 9 fics (shits and giggles aside, I'm grateful for this compliment).**

**On the same review, there's an interesting angle he/she discusses, which is the idea of a no-Behelit fic because it would cause major imbalance in the worldbuilding and levels of power. I disagree wholeheartedly. Considering the unique and unexplored magic in Mundus, there _may_ be ways to deal with Behelits and their Apostles. That's without counting the medieval nukes that dragons are, and the equivalent of the zombie apocalypse with superhumans leading them which is the threat of the Others. Granted, _if_ said Berserk were introduced, then _perhaps_ they would be introduced over a lengthy period of time in a gradual manner. Can't discuss more than that, I'm afraid.**

**Last thing worth discussing would be, ironically, the _cussing_ in discussing. There was a review saying that it took them out of the chapter reading the abrassive dialogue between Geralt and the others, whether it translates into a lot of cursing or a lot of screaming. I understand this on the one hand. On the other, Geralt is the reincarnation of Guts that gets to live a better life. He's still as rowdy as a sailor and, above all, he's just now becoming a teenager. Lyanna is also notably rowdy and she takes after Geralt, her idol. And the situations they've been _haven't_ been normal. I've literally cherrypicked the extraordinary moments in Winterfell precisely because of this. A day in the life would be much less excessive (for a lack of better words) when it comes to behaviors and communications.**

**Now, without further ado, enjoy the next chapter.**

**Truth, Mercy and Regret**

Geralt walked across the halls. They were dark enough as they could be, in the dead of the night, in the middle of an erratic winter. Few were the torches spared to keep the halls moderately dim, but Geralt had walked them all his life, he may have just as well walked them blind. He was moderately coated when he made it out of the halls. He had to sneak past some guards, no doubt placed by his father, to ensure he'd be well and safe in his room. But he knew Winterfell by heart, and he knew the heart of Winterfell. When there were a few too many posted at one gateway, all he'd need was stick to the shadows and toss a small stone far across another hall. It fooled them every time. Outside of the great castle, he felt a terribly sharp gust cutting at his cheeks. It was about the only part of him that was exposed. The black cloak helped him hide out through the night, and so he moved by heart towards the Godswood.

The nightmares had been relentless since the wildling raid. They'd grown crueler, which he had thought impossible prior. What made them macabre was the worst of the monsters, the new hellish figure in every one of his dreams now. He was the monster. With black claws he'd strangle the ginger wildling child, long enough for the boy to cough up blood. Those were on the better nights. In others, he was hacking at him with an ungodly sword, cleaving him the way a butcher would skin game and strip its meat. All that would be left would be a pile of limbs and body parts, but the head would always glare at him from the top of the mound, with naught but pain and fear and hate. In some of the dreams, the boy would be blonde and dressed proper. In others, he was a blonde girl, dressed in commoner's clothes, standing by a wagon that her priest father drove. All ended the same way. Slaughter.

_It wasn't your fault, Geralt._ That seemed to be the new phrase all his family seemed to like telling him since the incident with the 'freefolk'. As if those words would magically change the outcome and save the ginger wildling's life. As if they were even right in the first place. The only time he hadn't blatantly ignored the person that said that was, of all people, Brandon. He was in his room the night after the event, having not left it for food nor people. His father had tried to open the door from the other side multiple time but Geralt left the key in so he could not turn the lock. It wasn't until Brandon came drunkenly pounding the door that Geralt snapped from his trance. He'd had half a mind to stay silent and wait for him to grow tired and leave, but the way his eldest brother kept moaning _'please, let me in'_ had him curious.

The biggest surprise to opening the door was the Wild Wolf sluggishly and heavily wrapping his arms around him and putting his head on Geralt's shoulder. _I'm sorry, Ger. It was my fault. I shouldn't have… the chieftain died at my hands. I should've looked for her son. I failed and put it on you. I'm sorry, Ger. It was my fault. My fault._ The last thing he had guessed he'd be doing was comforting Brandon, but that's how the night had gone and the morning come. It took half an hour to get him to stop weeping, but soon after the brothers simply sat in silence, watching the stars and the moon continue their voyage through the midnight sky. By the time the sun began to rise, Brandon's bottleache began to settle in. Their parting was far more silent than their meeting, but it ended as it did as it had started, only Geralt was crying on Brandon's shoulder by the end of it. It was simple, but… comforting. There was a strange sense of understanding in Brandon and Geralt since then, an unspoken solidarity that overpowered any rivalry they might have had before.

Though Geralt had left his room thanks to Brandon's arrival, the nightmares hadn't ceased. His sleep had worsened, and his father had noticed. He even tried to sneak Essence of Nightshade into his dinner's drink, but that had only ended in Geralt spitting it out and throwing the goblet against the wall. The only thing worse than having nightmares was not being able to wake from them. He went through the dark, finally making his way to the Heart Tree. The solemn face was one he had long since gotten used to, the red sap leaking from its eyes taking on a frostier hue. He jumped when he turned to see one of its great roots. With fewer sleep, Geralt found himself seeing things that weren't there more often, and making out dragons out of snakes. The root itself resembled the body of a great pale snake, the like of which he heard could only be found in the cruelest swamps of the neck, hunting men and lizard-lions alike.

He took a deep breath, realizing it was only an extension of the great warden of the Godswood. He blinked a few times before he realized he had his sword in hand. '_Orphan's Tears_', he almost called it. His father had forbidden him from carrying that out. He moved his gloved hand along the great root, the blanket of white frost falling to the pale floor. He sat and sighed, facing the Heart tree's face with his sword at his lap. He frowned as he looked at it closer. Some days it looked sad, weeping. This time, the shadows made its face angrier, tears of fury escaping broken eyes. Geralt felt judged. Geralt felt broken. _I'm sorry. I… I didn't know. I didn't want to. I just wanted to protect my brother. I didn't want to kill a child. Please, help me. Rest is all I ask for. No, not rest. Some way to right my wrongs. I wanted to help. I want to help._

His tears froze on his cheeks. With a shivering hand, he wiped them off. He took a deep breath. _Meekness won't help. I'm not a weakling. All I need is a chance. Something I can do to make things right. If it costs me my life, so be it. But I need this. If it takes giving my life for someone worth saving, I'll do it, just show me the way. _But his greater resolve was only answered in a gale that blew his hood back. His ears pained from the frostiness biting into them at the night's coldest. He immediately put it back over his head and grit his teeth at the great white pillar. _Then at least help me name my fucking sword._ This time, there was no wind, no running water, no leaves to listen to. The Gods gave him naught but silence, but at least they robbed the thoughts of monsters and demons from his mind.

Geralt shook his head and looked back at Lord Mormont's gift. _Every great sword has a name._ Brandon said that. Lyanna said that, as did Benjen. He wasn't so sure about it, but he figured he'd respect Lord Jeor by giving it a worthy name. _A sword shouldn't be named until it is blooded,_ he remembered Rickard say once. He wondered how long ago _Ice_ had been blooded. He looked at the fine steel, about as good as it could get without rising to the like of its Valyrian cousins. _My first kill was a wildling, a wildling boy that came south of the Wall just to survive. Is that right? The Umbers would be like to say I did a service, killing one before it could grow into a savage. But that Arla just wanted her son to live. The wildling women and children that survived haven't done anything to betray us. They've kept their heads low, sure, I'm sure they loathe us. But they're northmen, aren't they? Am I supposed to help the wildlings, the 'free folk', then? Or am I to put an end to them?_

Rustling of the leaves caught his attention. His mind went through the mysterious rider, and the blue rose that followed him. His sword was immediately in his hands again, ready to strike out against the invader. He jumped when he found a black wolf coming from the woods. It took him a moment to realize the wolf wasn't coming towards him. For all he knew, the beast hadn't even seen him. It was a little shorter than the average, and it was limping. Blood dripped from its legs and its hide, and all he could hear were short cries. It stopped for a moment when it came upon Geralt, and Geralt found himself looking at a black mass of fur and two piercing blue eyes staring back at him. Neither moved. Then a great white shadow rammed the wolf, the snow bear snarling, mouth covered in gore. A swipe of its great paw winded the wolf, leaving it whimpering on the floor. _Fuck, I have to run._

But Geralt found himself locked in place, watching the wolf do nothing as the snow bear laid its leg on its body, the weight of it trapping the wolf in place. _Fight, you idiot. You'll die like that._ For a moment, it was as if the wolf listened and it snarled at the snow bear. A roar from its greater left it submissive. Geralt felt his teeth grinding together. _Don't just lay there! Kick, move, fight, bite that bastard! Don't let him help itself to you!_ The bear's head slowly lowered towards the body. _Damn it, do something!_ The maw opened, teeth slowly coming towards the fur. _MOVE!_ Geralt's breath hitched, and suddenly he was in pain.

He could hardly breathe, his legs were scratched and bloody, his fur sticky. The great weight on his chest was powerful, and the white queen claimed victory, mouth about to bite his gut. The fear was strong, the scents of the forest overpowered by the white beast's musk, but a presence rebelled against that fear. Rage and hate warmed his body, a presence he could not recognize taking over his body. Foreign, fierce, its spirit walked the line between a pack leader and the rouges amongst his kin. He himself was a rogue, his pack had been slaughtered in the woods. He was young, still, but greater than his cousins. They loathed him, however, feared him. Only he and his sister had survived, hunting when they could, scavenging more often. His sister had found a carcass, but it had belonged to the great white one. He attacked her so his sister could escape. He felt her life, alive, the survivor of the pack, but she was far from his scent. She was far from the white queen.

He'd submitted. His greater had attacked him, and his corpse would suffice to quell her belly so his sister would roam free. But the presence within him was angry, spiteful, unruly. It did not recognize the white queen's power in her domain, it snarled at her strength, it howled at her reign. And at the end of his life, the presence took a hold of his mind. Foaming at the mouth, snarling in a rage foreign to his temper, he bit the queen's jaw, sinking teeth through bone and tongue. The blood tasted warm and sweet in his mouth, feeding more the raging beast in his mind than his aching belly. The queen roared and lifted her great paw, and the presence moved his legs, running from the beast with newfound strength and anger. The scars she branded him with were still bleeding, but his soul remained free.

His scent guided him until he met the presence. He had smelled men before, their shining grey claws and red flowers spreading fear into his cousins. This male had a great claw, extending outwards, locked in a prowling stance. One look at his eyes and he knew he had found the presence. And with a third eye, the black wolf gazed into the man as he had gazed into him. This man had a pack still, though his silent brother was far south, just as the black wolf's sister had run. And, like the black wolf, he was still mostly a pup. He was more grown than the black wolf, but not by much. But where the black wolf had only known fear and loneliness, the man-pup only recognized pain and rage. The man-pup barked into his mind, and the black wolf stood to his side, primed for the hunt.

Geralt took a deep breath, coughing and placing a hand on his head. _What in all Seven hells was that?! I… I warged. I warged into the wolf. Nan's tales were true. I… I don't have time to think. Not now. Not with a damn snow bear coming to us._ The snow bear had since regained its control, and with it, newfound fury at her wounded jaw. Geralt gripped his sword with both hands, and the black wolf at his side growled in anger. She began to charge at them, and Geralt's breath slowed. _This… this is what I needed. Sword in hand, fighting against men and beasts… this is my home._ And for a moment his nightmares were forgotten, along with his name and his memories. He was just another predator in the woods, fighting for his grounds. The snow bear was upon them, and they attacked as a pack.

When she jumped at them, Geralt rolled to his left while the black wolf hopped to the right. She missed both, and in a fluid motion, Geralt swung his sword at her front-right leg and the wolf bit her at the heel of her other. The bear roared in pain, swinging her arm to free herself of the wounded pup. He was tossed in the way a petulant child would throw his toy, but Geralt could taste blood in his mouth. The black wolf spat a large chunk of fur and meat, and the snow bear was limping with her front-left paw. Geralt's own swing had cut deep, previously white fur being stained by her blood. _We can do this, we can win._ But the snow bear leapt at Geralt, and this time he didn't dodge in time. She was upon him, and the only thing keeping her from gnawing his face off was his sword. He held it at its side in her mouth, cutting at her mouth the more he drove it forwards. He flinched at his bloody left hand. He held his sword by the hilt in his right, but he could only hold it by the blade at the left.

The black wolf was winded, Geralt knew. _I even felt that._ He'd be up soon, but not soon enough. _I can't die here, not now._ When he saw her raise her wounded left paw, his mind raced, and his right arm moved. He let go of the left hand, and used all his strength to slide the blade across her mouth, cutting deep into her cheeks. Before she could strike him with her paw, the movement of the blade scratched deeply at its underside. Geralt rolled from beneath her, wincing as he used both hands to get himself up. He looked at his left palm briefly. _Fuck, that cut way too deep._ The black wolf had returned to his side, and Geralt gripped his blade with both hands. The snow bear's front-left paw was useless now, he could see her struggling to keep herself standing on her right one. He bit his tongue. _Come now, if you keep at this, we'll have to kill you. We don't want to. Go your way and we'll go ours._ Her roar disheartened him, and she lunged at them again, her limp greatly impairing her previous speed. _We have no choice. We can only make this quick. Painless._

His mind linked to the wolf's, and they ran as well, a last plan in mind to defeat the rabid beast. _If we fail, we die. But if we win, we survive. We'll just have to win._ The black wolf trailed a little behind Geralt, and Geralt made for a great swing at the snow bear's front-right leg. She jumped over it, and his breath hitched in surprise. It was too fast, but he reacted just as quick. He wrapped his right arm in his thick cloak and placed it in her mouth. She bit down hard. He could feel teeth tearing through skin and muscle, but not down to the bone. If it weren't for the black wolf's bite, her grip would have like been strong enough to break his bones. Even them, he could still feel them cracking. He bit the insides of his cheeks until he tasted his blood, and in a brief escape, went into the mind of the wolf's. On four pained but working legs, he ran faster than he ever could on two. He bit at the left leg where he had previously, until he tore an even greater chunk of muscle out.

Geralt snapped back into his own head, and the great beast roared in pain, collapsing to the floor. The black wolf hopped back, having left her crippled in her leg. Geralt had no time to think, only move his agonizing arms together to wield his sword in a two-handed grip. With one fell swoop, Geralt cleaved into her skull with a roar of his own. The sword stopped halfway through her head, and she fell to her side, limp and cold. He was panting by the end of it. They both were. The only thing he felt warm against his body was the blood running down his hands. He coughed for a moment. He'd been winded when the she-bear had knocked him into the snow. And with the fight leaving his blood, he dropped his sword when he felt his arms' wounds. He wasted no time stuffing his bleeding left palm into the snow, and he tried his best to roll his right forearm in it just as well. The black wolf fell on his haunches before laying his head on the snow, breath coming hardly to his lungs. Geralt could see him licking his own wounds, but even ten feet away, his figure only became blurrier. _Hells, I didn't think I was this wounded._

He made himself get up, walk up back to where the Heart Tree had witnessed the encounter. _Is it laughing now? I'm losing blood. Too much blood. _Looking at the black wolf and then himself, he clenched his teeth. _There's no other way, not anymore._ He walked towards the black wolf, who raised his head to look at him. He made a gesture with his head, and nodded at the castle. _Let's go._ He immediately felt the black wolf's fear. His mind was taken to the smell of men and their great stone caves, of his half-kin hunted and skinned and turned into the fur the beasts of two legs would wear. Geralt sighed. _It's stay here and die or come with me and live._ He was probably exaggerating, and he didn't know how the stray would interpret his thoughts, but he seemed intelligent enough to understand.

The two walked back, only ever guided by the watchful moon, the only other witness to the battle at the Godswood. He could feel the black wolf hesitating when they were within the North's capital, where few trees grew and men had raised their homes. He had to strongarm him a lot of the way, but when Geralt briefly blinked out of consciousness, the black wolf was at his side. The pup allowed him to put his arm over it, helping him walk as the back of his mind guided the two. _Raising flowers, befriending wolves, I'm more wildling than Northman at this point._ When they were at the great gates of Winterfell, the wolf whined and stopped. Geralt knew he refused to enter the grandest and most dangerous of the man-caves, but he took pity on the pup when he saw his bloody legs. _I'll bring her here. That should be enough… she can't use all her leaves. Not even for us._

Geralt felt ghostly as he walked back in. It hadn't been all that long since he'd left, but the guards were nowhere to be found. The dripping sound of his blood meeting the stone floor was the only sound in the halls, and he only just retained enough of his mind to silence his footsteps. Every time he closed his eyes, he found himself in a different hall, and every breath he took, he found himself leaning onto a wall to keep himself standing. Under torchlight, he looked at his arms. His left palm had been cut so deep he could see bones beneath. His right forearm was a mangled mess covered in his gore. He didn't even know what kind of wound he was looking at, and he refused to dwell on it too long. _I was still able to wield a sword in spite of that. The damage isn't overwhelming._ But the next time he blinked, he was at the foot of Lyanna's bedroom. He looked at it for a minute, cursing everyone and everything as he used his arms to prop himself back up.

The pain was the only thing keeping him awake now, an agony he'd only ever glimpsed at in his dreams. _This won't end here. I'm no god. I'm mortal. But I sure as hell won't die here._ Walking in his sister's room had been nothing short of his most masterful stealth work. He ensured the opening and closing of her door was silent in spite of the wood's weight. His steps made less sound than the wind. He kept his arms wrapped in his cloak to not leave bloody evidence. The blue rose waited on her window, almost shining as brightly as the moon. Geralt could see a second stem growing halfway from the first one, faster than he had seen any other flower ever grow. It would likely take the rest of the month for it to be complete, and yet… _Doesn't matter. I'm sorry Chitch, but I need you._ He grabbed the pot with his hands and spared his snoring sister a single look. A faint line of drool made its way out from the corner of her mouth, maintaining a peaceful expression she rarely ever had in her waking hours. He left when he was sure she was sleeping.

If the way into the heart of Winterfell was mostly awake with bouts of unconsciousness, the way out was the other way around. He resorted to pain to keep himself standing, but he felt more blood trickling out as he meant to keep himself. _I can't fall asleep, and I can't die. Not yet. I have a partner that can't die just yet. Neither can I._ When he made it to the front gates, he almost fell over from the terrible wind. His body was shivering now. There was no anger, no fear, no fight in his body keeping him warm. _Almost there._ He was looking for the pup until he found him laying on his side, shivering at the winter's unforgiving bite. The snow around him had since become pink and crimson. _I'm here. I've made it._ He sat against the wall just outside of the gates, near where the wolf was. They sat closely together, fooling themselves into conjuring warmth in their minds. He looked at the blue rose and, with all his remaining drive, made himself count all of the leaves upon its stem. _…Twenty-one, twenty-two, and… twenty-three… Eight for me… eight for the wolf, seven for Chitch. She… she can grow them back…_

"_Chitch, if you can hear me… I need you. We need you. Please._" For a moment he thought his whispers had been drowned out by the gale, but in the fog of his vision, he saw a shining little girl come out. She looked drowsy, and spent a longer time looking at him than she normally would have. At some point, she must have seen his hands, because she shrieked and cried. "Ger Friend! Are you alright! You're hurt! You're–"

"_Chitch, I… I need you to listen. I don't have much time. My arms are hurt, just like that wolf's legs are… I need you to heal us, Chitch. But you can't use all your leaves, only… use six on me, eight on him. Nine are yours, nine you don't touch._" He laid the pot between his legs and showed her his arms, mangled and bruised, before pointing at his circumstantial partner. Chitch fumbled some when she witnessed the injuries, but in a moment, her face was filled with determination. She immediately set to picking out leaves, so eagerly that Geralt winced. "_Chitch… pick only–"_

"Six on Ger Friend and eight on woof-woof!" He didn't have the mind or the strength to tell her she was talking about a wolf, cousin of the sigil of House Stark. What he did feel was two leaves on his left palm glowing greatly before sealing the deep wound. The four on his arms worked wonders as well. He could feel them, he knew they'd bruise deeply, but he wasn't about to lose his life nor his limbs. _I'll be good to train tomorrow… or is it already today?_ Opening and closing his hands, he was relieved to feel no blood gushing out, and the pain was manageable. He had too little strength to get up or truly test his arms, but he did manage to turn his neck to see Chitch jogging up to the black wolf, unphased by the creature nor the snow. Two leaves glowed on his front-right paw, then two more on his left. The last four were split between his hind legs, and the wolf was breathing much more evenly. Chitch was back on her pot, and Geralt held her close, protecting her rose with his bloody cloak.

He blinked and the moon was by the horizon, escaping from the edging pink at the other end of the world. The wolf was still there, but Geralt's heart pounded. He was shivering, and he was sure his companion's warmth was what had kept him from freezing through the cruel night. He shuffled as best as his muscles could allow, and the pup slowly raised his head. With two drowsy blue eyes, he blinked at Geralt. _You need to go, now. The men will be awake soon. They'll hunt you down. _The wolf stayed in place before standing up. He faced the direction where the Godswood had been, but turned back to look at Geralt and whined. He nuzzled his snout to Geralt's head. He sighed. "I'm not your pack, boy. I'll be fine, I've got my pack right here. My den's just inside. Your sister's out there. Follow her. Find her. I'll be fine."

The black wolf remained close to him, licking his hands clean of some of his blood. When the two heard movement in one of the houses nearby, they shared a look. The moment the insides lit up with torchlight and heating up with fireplaces, Geralt grabbed him by the snout. He looked into his eyes, and with the last of his strength, forced himself into the pup's mind. _Go, now. Smell the men in their caves. Smell their red flowers. Smell their steel. Leave now or they'll follow you._ The wolf whined some more, but Geralt was having none of it. Defeated, his strange partner gave him a few licks across his face before running off. Geralt could feel sleep overtaking him again, but ensured his mind guided the black runt back to the woods before he did. And for the first time since the incident, Geralt had had a dreamless night.

By the time he awoke, he had to rub sleep from his eyes. The sun was almost at noon's height, and he groaned in his mind. _Fuck. Father will hang me once he finds me._ Getting up, he found himself comfortable, without the weight of his clothes or the nuisance of his blood sticking to him. He immediately tossed the thick blanket he had over him to find both his arms were full of bandages. On his bed, he found himself clean and mostly naked. _Wait, they found me._ His arms were sore, but nothing like they had been when he confronted the snow bear. He could only think back to the black wolf he had for a companion and hope he got away. _I was in his mind. I warged into him. I'm a warg. And he was a pup the size of a wolf… was he a direwolf?! There haven't been any south of the Wall for centuries._ But then he remembered his arms wrapped in tight white cloths. He remembered how he healed. _FUCK, CHITCH!_

He wasted no time dressing himself in new, cleaner clothes. As he left, he found a pair of guards outside his door, waiting for him. "My lord Geralt, Lord Rickard wishes to see you in his solar. He's said it's a matter of–"

Geralt ran between the two, diving low in between them where they couldn't reach. The two fumbled about and ran after him, but Geralt's heart was beating faster than his feet were moving. _No, no, no, NO. Hells, TAKE ME. LEAVE CHITCH OUT OF THIS._ But his internal cry to the gods was left unanswered. He ran hall through hall, two guards becoming four, four guards becoming ten, until he nearly had a platoon at his heels. They didn't matter. Geralt had spent long enough working his way around Winterfell that he knew the shortcuts, where he could run that they couldn't reach. Their armors weighed them down, and Geralt's renewed vigor left them dusted. When he made it to the front gate, he looked at the place where he had laid hours before, where he'd taken Chitch and healed himself and the wolf. The bloody mess was still there, but the rose was not. _They, no, they couldn't have thrown it away. They must have taken it elsewhere in the castle._

Running back in, he found the place he came from blocked entirely by a flood of guards. _GET OUT OF MY WAY._ He ran to another hall to his left. The detour cost him time, but even with the ever-increasing number of soldiers, he managed to outrun them. It wasn't until he got to the courtyard that he heard Lyanna screaming. "_GIVE IT BACK, BRANDON! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. SHE– IT DOESN'T BELONG TO YOU! GIVE IT BACK, YOU'VE ALREADY RIPPED OFF LEAVES OF IT YOU DOLT!"_

"_I said calm down, will you?! I haven't done a damn thing to this flower! Hells, it was freezing when I found it! I've been safekeeping it for whenever Geralt wakes from his–" _He was in the courtyard now, and he found Brandon holding the pot high over his head with an outstretched arm and Lyanna back with the other. Above, the blue rose looked no worse for wear than how he'd left it. He could even see the leaves growing back from where Chitch had taken them. The two stopped when they found him, likely no better than a mad hound, sweating profusely and face strained. "Brandon… Bran, I need that rose back. I need it _now._"

"Geralt, I'll give this flower back when– _NOW JUST A DAMN MINUTE._" The moment Lyanna had taken to scratching his other hand, he angrily pushed her to the ground. She yelped, and the growl he gave was enough to keep her from pouncing on him again. He lowered the hand with which he held the pot and gave a good look at the rose. Chitch was sitting with her knees to her chest, a worried face trying to hold back tears. Geralt had half a mind to fight Brandon until he dropped it, but he knew that wouldn't do, not when the soldiers were moments away. Brandon scowled when he looked at the flower and shook his head. "What happened before– _what happened with the wildlings_ shook us all. It was terrible, it was a _tragedy._ Father's always said so, but now's the time we stick _together._ We're a pack, we're family. And I'm worried about you Ger, we've all been since that day. But neither you, nor Lya, nor _anyone_ will convince me to release _this fucking flower_ when it was the only thing you held on to in a pool of your own blood! You're going to tell me, here and now, what's the meaning of this!"

For those brief few moments, Brandon had shown more of Rickard than Geralt had seen in his life. He frowned. _He can't see her._ He didn't know if that was better or worse. Geralt swallowed the lump in his throat, forgetting the soldiers almost upon him, breathing deep to keep a calm demeanor. "Bran… I can't explain it, not in a way that you would understand. I know that's not what you'd like to hear right now, but it's the truth. That flower, _that rose,_ means everything to me. More than my life, and I don't care how stupid that sounds, because that's also the truth. I need it back, _please._"

Something in Bran's expression changed when he spoke. He remembered his giant of a brother coming to his room and begging for forgiveness. Geralt guessed it was what made him sensible. _Maybe it's what made me choose words over fists just now._ There was a look the two shared, the look of understanding they now had. Bran rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Ger, do you have _any_ idea what it was like to find you _outside_ of Winterfell's gates covered in blood? Hells, what did you even _do_ to end up like that? You know how I found you? Your blood left a _trail_ leading to you. And that's _within_ the castle, never mind if there's more buried out there beneath the snow. The only thing that made me realize you _weren't_ dead was your _shivering._ And all you had, all you held on to as if it were something worth more than all the Lannisters' gold was _this rose._ Damn you Geralt, _don't tell me you can't explain it._ Don't tell me you can't explain it to the brother that brought you to your bed, wiped you clean, properly wrapped up arms with more scars than Ser Rodrik's and _saved_ the damn flower in the first place."

Geralt bit his lip. He had half a mind to tell his brother the truth, but that could just be worse than keeping silent. By the time he opened his mouth, half of Winterfell's guards made it to the courtyard, panting and puffing. The only one that wasn't was Rickard, who shoved his way past half of the guards. He looked worse than Brandon, the bags under his eyes deeper, darker. Benjen was at his side, afraid and unsure at the situation. Geralt could hear the occasional gust, a mere breeze compared to the previous night's monstrous gales, and it was about the only thing making a sound. "Benjen, Lyanna, back to your lessons. Brandon, give your brother the rose. Geralt, to my solar, now. Bring the rose."

The soldiers looked at each other before Rickard gave a dismissive wave. Geralt and his siblings took longer to react, but Rickard's look brokered no argument. Benjen and Lyanna went their way, though not before the latter gave him and the rose a look. Brandon looked at the pot, inspected it at all sides, and carefully gave it to Geralt. It was all he could do to mouth _'sorry'_ to his older brother. Brandon sighed, but nodded back at him and left for the training yard. Only Rickard remained, waiting patiently for the unruly Stark to follow him. Once he did, he kept a brisk pace without stopping to look back at his son, which Geralt took for the opportunity to keep Chitch and her rose as discretely out of sight as he could.

The solar was tall enough to overlook all of Winterfell and several leagues beyond. It wasn't quite at the top of the Great Keep, but it was tall enough to overlook everything else beyond the windows. Rickard moved a set of parchments and books from his desk, making sure to neatly and carefully stash them away in one of his chests. Geralt would have wondered what they were for, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He knew Chitch was looking up at him from the flower, though she knew to say nothing. _She's alive and well. That's all that matters._ His father pulled a humbler chair on the other side of the desk and gestured Geralt there. He was still for a moment. He sat on the chair, pot still in hands, while his father walked around to take his seat. The two gazed at one another, Rickard awaiting his son's initiative while Geralt hesitated.

"You can place it on the desk, Geralt. It won't die because it left your hands." Geralt's lips thinned to a fine line, almost protectively wrapping his arms around it. He caved, placing the pot as close as he could to his side of the table. Rickard took a deep breath. "Brandon told me a rather unique story this morning. That he found you, bloody and wounded, holding on to a strange blue rose. And yet, the blood washed away to show… no wounds. Meaning that you were never hurt and that was something else's blood, or you cast some grand magical spell to heal yourself. I think we both can agree the latter's impossible, so what I _do_ want to know is the source of your bruises and your torn clothes."

"I fought against a snow bear and won." Geralt replied simply. Rickard blinked owlishly at his statement before uttering out. "And _why_ did you fight against a snow bear."

"There was a wounded black wolf in the Godswood. I think it was a direwolf. The snow bear was going to kill it if I stood by and watched." Rickard nodded. He breathed in deep and nodded again. "So, you were in the Godswood again, in the dead of the night, I'm assuming by the Heart Tree as well. And in this time, you happened upon a wolf, perhaps a _direwolf,_ wounded from a fight with a bear, and your first thought was… to _fight _it?"

"It was, father. I only ever go to the Heart Tree because I can't sleep. I haven't slept as well as today since… since the mission. I had to do it father." When Geralt responded, Rickard buried his face deep into his hands. His hands were shaking, and beneath that, he could see his father's face going from red to purple. Another resonating sigh, and the face Geralt saw was as collected as it had ever been. "The Heart Tree, that's right… does it give you peace, Geralt, truly? Is that why this past year that's all you've been doing? Is there anything beyond this? Could you not have said this to me? I couldn't count the number of times I'd have rested easier if you acted the same way as you have all this time if you'd let me, _convinced me_ to continue this with _armed guards._ Did it ever occur to you, Geralt? That you did not have to go at it alone?"

"It wouldn't have been the same father, not if I had others with me. I… it's when I'm alone that I feel at peace. I don't– I _can't_ pray, I don't know how. But when I'm alone, with the Heart Tree, I no longer have nightmares. It's strange, it's not that the gods answer, it's that they're no longer there." Rickard nodded at that, looking at the desk. He didn't meet his gaze for a minute. When he did, they seemed to see far past his own eyes. "Did you get this flower today or before? Brandon said it's the first time he's seen it, but when Benjen told me the fuss Lyanna was making over him having it, I'm assuming she knew too. And while I _could _believe that you found the rose in the wilderness, I doubt you find flowerpots in the wild."

"Before." Geralt replied evenly. His heart pounded, but he remained as unwavering as his father. Rickard nodded and remained silent some more. "Was it on your nameday? Your _thirteenth_ nameday?"

"…It was." _How did he know? He didn't have time to ask Lyanna, and Brandon and Benjen didn't know about it._ His father seemed to have caught on to his mind's workings. "You were rebellious before, and you had been at this for some time, but there's a fine line between waking early before the morn and spending the entire night at the Godswood. You weren't as bold before your thirteenth nameday. And if you've been looking after that flower, then it would explain why you were as stubborn to stay as you were after I proposed to send you to Starfall."

Geralt remained silent at that. The two looked at one another for another moment before Rickard nodded his head. "Very well then, let's see this rose. To be so valuable, there must be something to it."

"I…" His words died in his throat when he saw his father's look. He looked at the rose, and Chitch who lay on the ground, making herself as hidden as possible. Geralt sighed and nodded at her. She blinked several times before sitting up. He carefully slid the rose's container closer to his father, almost as if it would break if he pushed it too hard. In his mind, he was content to find ten leaves on the rose instead of nine. His heart near stopped when Rickard stopped to look closely at the flower. The moments were long and his face betrayed nothing. Then, with a delicacy Geralt knew not he had, Rickard caressed the petals of the rose with the back of his fingers. "…It's a beautiful rose, I'll grant you that. I've never even heard of a blue rose."

"You… father, you don't believe in the gods, do you? The old gods?" At that, Rickard raised his head to look directly at him. His glare was intense, and he spoke evenly. "I'll answer you that question only if you tell me why this rose is so important. Why one flower made you forsake the betterment of your future, of House Stark's, and throw yourself in danger's way."

Geralt looked down. _I can't lie. Not now, he'll smell it right away. But I can't tell the whole truth either._ The words began forming in his mind, and though he kept his father waiting, he spoke when he was sure of the story he would tell. "That flower, that rose… it was given to me. No, not given to me. I found it, on my nameday. She was young, maybe half of Benjen's age. _A stupid little girl who never stopped to think of herself, she–_"

Geralt stopped. He grit his teeth and frowned hard at the floor. He made his eyes dry before he lost control. _It already happened and it happened in a dream, why the hell is this affecting me?_ Rickard didn't rush him, instead folding his hands together and waiting patiently. "Who was 'she', Geralt?"

"Some poor girl, probably a commoner, probably an orphan. She said her first memory was hearing rats, so she called herself 'Chitch'. Chitch… she had a flower with her, and food she must have gotten from others. She… had starved, in the Godswood, by the time I found her. All her food, she'd given to a miserable black runt of a dog. A cruel cunt of a hound that only ever took, only ever liked to kill, and he took all her food. She gave it all to him, and he took it all. All she had let was that _stupid flower._" By the time he finished, he felt milky tears making their way to his chin. His hands were fists, and all he could think of was a field flower, small and broken, left in a field of its soulless brethren. A hand placed itself firmly on his shoulder, and he found his father to bear a subtle, compassionate look. "And that rose was all she left behind. I'm sorry, Geralt. I know you. I know you well enough you wouldn't care for a flower if it didn't mean something that much greater than you. If it helps, I'll see to it that Winterfell watches out for orphans on the street, make sure this doesn't happen again. We have few of them as it is."

Geralt nodded, inhaling deep and furiously brushing the tears away. It took some coughing to make the lump in his throat go away, and he felt a headache when he refused his body the need to mourn. "Actually… I have just the place for this. The decision on what you do with the rose is yours, but I'm sure you'll agree to it once you see it. Come on, lad. Follow me."

His father gave him a comforting hug and held his head to his chest before leading him out of there. Geralt spared a brief look at Chitch, who looked at him worriedly. With no one around and his father's back turned to him, he took a moment to rub her head with his finger. She hugged the finger, and he left it there as he walked to where his father led him. _If he turns around, he'll just see me holding the pot strangely anyways._ Once they made it through a select number of corridors, they came upon a unique door, one Geralt hardly ever remembered seeing. His father showed him a silver key, putting it in the lock and twisting it until it clicked open.

At first, Geralt thought they were leaving the Great Keep or returning to the courtyard, but this one had ten-foot walls all around with no windows on any side of the tower surrounding it. At the foot of the tower, in the middle of the open area, there was a glass building the size of an inn, which looked green inside. His father showed him a small smile as he took a golden key this time and opened it. Inside, there were more kinds of plants and flowers and bushes than Geralt had ever seen in his journeys in the North. Flowers of every color painted the ground and the walls while a fresh green alien to the north coated the floor. There were white stone pathways laid out as to not step on any of the growths, all elegantly made. Geralt stepped in and his father closed the door behind him.

He followed his father deeper until he found a marble bench in a circle around a large mound of untouched soil. While all other patches of earth in the building were taken, this one had been left virgin. Rickard motioned to it. "Help me out, would you, Ger? We'll be finding a new home for your rose right here."

Geralt did not stop to question his father on the beauty of the hidden garden, nor of its origins nor his intentions. Instead, the two dug out a hole fairly quickly. Geralt was especially careful to pull the blue rose from the pot, along with Chitch hanging on to its stem, before filling it in the mound. The height of it reached his thigh, and he found Chitch to be glowing once her flower was planted properly. He did his best to ignore it, but his father's eyes never left it, a light twinkling in his eyes while wearing a proud smile. "Aye, that should do it. This seems like the type that ought to be the garden's centerpiece."

"Father, since when has this garden been here?" There was melancholy in his eyes when he answered. "Your mother loved flowers. When we were wed, I was sure to gift her buds from all the places I could find. The North, the Reach, even some from the Westerlands and Dorne. Not all survived, of course. The springs beneath the Great Keep can only do so much in a land where the winters are so long. But the ones that lived grew stronger. Just like the Tyrell words, wouldn't you know. But we left this place for something special, something we wouldn't find anywhere else in the world. That flower… your rose reminds me of her, of Lyarra. No one is allowed into this garden, _her_ garden, not without my consent. Only bees can make their way through the holes. For us men, we'd need both keys, and there's only two sets of them. I have one, your mother had the others. I… I meant to give some to you and your brothers and sister, but to tell you the truth, I've been saving this for myself. It's where I go when I need to find peace."

Geralt nodded at that. The two sat on opposite sides of the circular bench, the only thing between them being the mound with the single rose at its top. Geralt thought on his father's last words. "I answered your question, father. You still haven't answered mine."

"No, no I haven't." He observed the rose again, though his eyes may have very well been looking into the horizon from the depth of his gaze. There was a solemnity in the air now, a weight that made Rickard Stark look far older than his years would suggest. He didn't speak immediately, opening and closing his mouth in what Geralt could only guess was him looking for the best way to answer his question. "It's not that I _don't_ believe in them, Geralt. I do believe they exist, that the Children of the Forest once walked through Westeros, along with Giants and the First Men. I believe there was a time where magic truly fermented the land, no, the _world,_ and that remnants are still out there. I believe the Heart Tree does have something sacred to it, something no man or beast can take away. I just believe that if I went to it, I would not find peace, only torment. And deservingly so."

"What do you mean?" Rickard closed his eyes. He looked to his son again, and for a moment, Geralt would have thought he was older than Walys. "I was taught the way, _our_ way of prayer and belief when I was younger than Ben. Your mother and I were careful to teach you all as much, even if I'd lost my own way. I was young when the War of the Ninepenny Kings was ongoing. It was a nasty business, from start to finish, but it was perhaps the greatest moment of unison in Westeros's history. I met Jon Arryn and Steffon Baratheon during that time, good men both. Dorne fought as well, along with the Lannisters and Tullys and Greyjoys and Targaryens. Only the Reach had no part in it, I suppose out of distance and lack of need, but the rest of the kingdoms answered the call. It was a simple but important cause, to root out the pretenders and stand by our king.

"It was the birthing grounds of heroics and songs and glory, or at least I believed as much. I was eighteen and still half a fool when the fighting began. I made my way south, and we kept fighting… At one point, I remember being at a camp in the Riverlands, an enemy camp. It was a contingent filled with Spotted Tom's butchers and mercenaries. We fell upon them hard. They'd been pillaging and raping the land, and we'd found the corpses and scars they left behind. We'd been furious. They were fighters to be sure, but in lands they didn't belong to against the might and fury of Westeros, what hope could they have?

"And I went with a select number of men and found all the stragglers and the runaways. In my mind, I had righteous fury on my side, that I was not only facing animals instead of men, but cowardly animals who ran away with their tails between their legs. What mercy did they deserve? They ran far, but we ran faster, into a little village of no more than three dozen people. We found the Essosi and we slaughtered them. Of that, we had no regrets. Then one of the older men in the village spoke, thanking us for our duty. Something in the look I gave him must've scared the truth out of him, even when I wasn't looking for it." Rickard paused, a lost look in his eyes. For a moment, Geralt believed his father was seeing phantoms.

"They had been looking out for their young, he said, that the mercenaries had captured the men and had their way with the women. That they only harbored the mercenaries and told them of the land so they would not suffer more. I was furious, furious to think we had fought so hard and buried so many because of the mercenaries' luck, only to find it was their fellow countrymen's betrayal that killed them." Rickard shook his head, a hollow look on his face. "We killed the old men and the young men, for letting themselves be captured, we said. For turning on their own, we said. The village wept for them, but we didn't care. After all, what right had they to weep when they sentenced so many others to die? It was the boys that were the worst, though. Kicking and screaming viciously. All I could think was of the danger there was to leave them alive, to grow old and foster that hatred for us and their countrymen, for all the lives that would be lost once they grew into men."

Rickard looked aghast now, and Geralt felt the pit in his stomach deepen. "I meant to save you from those horrors, Geralt. Killing armed men is one thing, yes, and even that is a burden that once you gain, you can never lose. Murdering innocents is a stain you'll never wash for your name. I know the horror you felt after dealing with the wildling invaders because I felt it after that day. Only I was worse. You were defending your brother, and I know you didn't know it was a child. I did. I dragged fifteen children kicking and screaming and did it myself. In front of their mothers. Those poor, brutalized mothers. Their crime had been to be born as commoners in a simple village, away from any lord's city. To look after their own, to protect their children. And I murdered them in front of them. I can still hear their screams."

Rickard paused. He looked horrified, as if he were witnessing what he narrated. Geralt didn't have it in him to pressure him for more, but he wanted to know what came after. For a moment, he thought that was the end of the story. Rickard sighed and continued. "They haunt me to this day, and it's the least I deserve. In looking to find and kill animals, I became a butcher myself. I came home to Lyarra with no song, no gold and no glory, only a dozen mothers' agonizing screams. That was the only thing that truly remained after the war. I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink, I couldn't piss nor shit, and I certainly couldn't sleep. One time I dared to go to the Godswood, and the face I saw that day may have very well been the same one made by the mothers. I haven't been able to return to it since. It's not that I don't believe in the gods, it's that the gods had no faith in me, and with every reason."

"That was years ago, father, you've been just ever since." His words of comfort were hollow. He may as well have tossed a stone into a dark sky and expected the storm to yield. Rickard laughed bitterly. "You have no children, Geralt, not yet. You will not understand that horror, that fear, that _pain_ until you do, to see something that's yours, something that came from _you_ and the person you love be taken from you. And what's worse, who are they to oppose me? If they took you, any of you away from me, I have the strength of the North itself to follow me. What could some poor woman in some backwater village do to avenge her own, to rebuild what she lost? It's an injustice, Geralt, what they inherit. We have all that we need, and they are at the mercy of our whims and wishes. In peacetime, perhaps, can they live a better life.

"I know what my fellow kinsmen think of me, say about me. They believe themselves discreet, but I know my halls too damn well for someone to hide their thoughts from me. They think me overly ambitious, almost a southron in the way I carry my plans. If I were to do it the way of my father and those that came before, I'd have all of you married to Manderlys, Karstarks, Boltons and even Starks to cement our northern roots. After the war, I've been looking south, at Walys's suggestions. People believe that I'm after power, out to make as much a name of myself as any of the legendary Brandons of House Stark. The truth is simple, and my purpose simpler. The truth is I'm looking for peace, and my purpose is the safety and happiness of my children. Most lords do this without considering the commoners, or worse, to use them for their betterment. I've been trying, Geralt, to make it so my children are safe at the cost of no one and the good of everyone.

"The Drowned God lies in the Iron Island, and the Seven span from the Riverlands and the Vale all the way down to the Foot. But no matter whether men pray to the Heart Trees or the Septs or the Grey King beneath the waves, all men are bound by one law that all gods enforce. No man is ever so cursed as a kinslayer. So what could be a more powerful deterrent for war than a union between all kingdoms, marriages that intertwine ancient and powerful bloodlines? Wars could not be half so cruel or ruthless when blood is involved, no one wants to repeat the War of the Ninepenny Kings. This, Geralt, this is my legacy. This is my obsession with finding bonds for all of you to seal in marriage. If we've raised you right, and you raise your children the same way, they could never turn their swords against their cousins. I believe in the gods, Geralt, but I believe I'll earn an audience with them when I accomplish this. And if all goes well, then the day I die and the maggots feast on my eyes, I can beg forgiveness of those mothers and their children and earn it. I can show them an end to unnecessary suffering."

Geralt was silent after that. He'd expected the truth, but nothing so deep and intricate as what his father had revealed. _Years of planning and arrangements, it's all he's been thinking of. No wonder he's focused on that after mother's death. She was the only one who comforted him through his grief. He wants redemption above all else. _He'd never felt half as guilty as he was now that he understood his father's truth. "I didn't know."

"I never told, and I'd ask you not to tell either. The others will know in due time, when they mature some more. You're an unbelievably unruly child, Geralt, which makes your incredible maturity that much more conflicting when it comes to defining you." He nodded absentmindedly at that. In the back of his mind, he noticed Chitch wiping tears from her eyes. _Is this what it takes? For blood to run to change the world?_ "Father, could you make a key for me and the others? I'd like them to come and see the rose. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to show Ben myself. Ned too, if he comes."

"I… yes Geralt, I'll speak to the silversmith about it." He nodded. _If Benjen can see Chitch, Lyanna and I will have to reign him in with the secret. He'll need to learn how to keep it. Ned… Ned won't be back for some time, but between me and Lyanna, I'm sure we'll convince him to be silent about it. And that's if he sees it. Bran didn't._ But his thoughts returned to his father, who looked at the rose with an air of melancholy and nostalgia that hadn't left him since he spoke of the darker days of his past. Geralt clenched his teeth. _Damn it._ "…Father, let me look for where I can find a match myself. I promise I'll find one and help you accomplish your dream. If I don't, I'll settle for the Night's Watch."

**Author's Notes: So, as you can guess, Geralt is coming to a crossroads on what to do with his teenage years and what to do with them. House Stark has been an exceptionally fun (and a little challenging) experiment for me. All you'll ever know about Rickard and Lyarra Stark is this: they were cousins, they got married, Rickard fought in the Ninepenny Kings war, and Rickard tried to wed all his children to Southron marriages. A lot could be taken from this, and I'm sure there's several different interpretations to what the character could have potentially been.**

**My goal was simple: make the antithesis of Tywin Lannister. Tywin is an amazing character because he represents Machiavellianism made flesh (with a few notable exceptions (like his treatement of Tyrion)). Rickard Stark, by comparison, is hindered by excessive empathy, but I tried to make it so that he's not one of the typical "oh, he's a good/honorable character, therefor he's stupid". He understands the way the world works, he understands how people work, and he himself has done heinous things (again, strongly inspired by Ian McShane's septon character in the show). He's far from perfect, and he still tries to do the best he can for as many people as he can in spite of how hard that is.**

**Beyond that, I'd had the idea for a while that Geralt would encounter a 'unique' black wolf, but I did not think about having him warg into it until I started writing this chapter. The scene with the snow bear (GOT lingo for polar bear but with a long tail) was fun to write, especially with how the lines are blurred between Geralt's and the wolf's mind, especially in how they see the world. ****And, what happened with Chitch was, for a lack of better words, necessary. The rose couldn't be hidden forever, and it needed safekeeping for Chitch's sake.**

**And, final fun fact, the title of this chapter is inspired by the names of the High Prophets in the original Halo trilogy (although that's really the only thing inspired from it). All things said and done, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter, and be ready for the Arc finale.**

**The Almighty Afroduck,**

**All Hail**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes: I'm back! Summer's been long, and surprisingly packed full of things I needed to do, but now I'm back. And goddamn, I'm surprised to have 240 followers and 162 favorites this early on the story.**

**To address some reviews quickly:**

**\- No, Geralt did not get the snowbear cloak. Besides that he respected it the way a beast would respect another beast, white isn't exactly his color.**

**\- Geralt's wounds were deeper than it would normally be. An important comment said that you can grip the blade of a sword without cutting yourself, and this is true depending on two things:**

** 1- You have heavy plate armor, in which case you're protected enough to grip it even if it comes at you at a relatively high speed/force.**

** 2- You can grip it barehanded and have maybe some deep scratches on your palm if it is motionless, but otherwise you'll be fine.**

** In Geralt's case, he was neither in armor nor was he catching his blade motionless. It drove back and _should_ have cut the upper half of his hand off, but he's strong enough that he would only take deep scars from it.**

**\- It _is_ the end of the initial Winterfell arc, but the 'who am I' one is... well, you'll see.**

**\- For the sole reviewer who mentioned not reading Berserk, I strongly recommend that you do. A lot of the story won't make sense without it, and it is an excelent story besides that.**

**\- As for matchmaking, more on that later, but endgame romance is _very_ far away, and I'd say you wouldn't guess it.**

**As for the rest, thanks for the support and overall encouraging comments! Now without further ado, here's the end of the first arc.**

**A Pack Divided**

It had been a good time. It had been the longest Eddard had stayed in the North in years, and the quickest he'd returned since his last stay. It had only been two months since Geralt's nameday, and he would stay a full moon before returning to the Eyrie. Lyanna had been ecstatic, and Benjen nearly matched her. Brandon and Geralt had been more controlled in their reaction, but undeniably happy that the Quiet Wolf had returned. It made Geralt crack a smile to remember his brooding brother's reaction to the far better relationship he held with the Wild Wolf. He lost it when he remembered Eddard approaching Geralt over what caused it. For a moment, he believed he would be the subject of his pity as well, but Eddard always proved to be wiser than he let on. _There's nothing pleasant about what you did, Geralt, but we still have Brandon alive thanks to you. It wasn't right the right thing to do, but it wasn't wrong either._

That in turn, led him to remember the show of the blue rose to Eddard and Benjen. Lyanna and Geralt had prepared Chitch in case she would receive new 'friends' before showing each one the flower. Eddard, much to Lyanna's disappointment and Geralt's expectations, had not seen little elven girl. Benjen, on the other hand, had seen her before he even saw the rose. Lyanna and Geralt had to pin him down and make him swear on his honor and name he'd never tell of her to the others before explaining the elf's situation. He'd refused at first, but agreed once he heard the whole story. He took a fast liking to Chitch soon after, and she to him. _Adults are less like to believe in fantastical tales, to see dragons and elves and demons and spirits as children will find. _Someone in Geralt's dreams had said once. The thought made him frown. _So what would it take for the old and the bitter to see them? Would they need to reclaim their innocence or be forced into a nightmare?_ On the brighter side of that thought, Geralt's nightmares became fewer and fewer. He still slept poorly, but it was to dreamless nights.

But as of now, Geralt was testing his skills against Eddard, who fought back against him well. It was clear the third of the Starks was better than his elder, but Geralt decided to hold back. He did not seriously intend to hurt his brother and friend, and he did not judge him harshly on his skills. It wasn't that Eddard was inept, he was rather good, actually. But against someone like Geralt, who may have very well been born with a sword in his hand, it was clear who held the advantage in spirit and experience. Even strength as well. Geralt had finally practiced enough to start using a greatsword with one hand. He had had half a mind to spar with Robert Baratheon without holding back, so he could size up the stag for his worth. But, according to their father, Jon Arryn kept him in the Vale for a reason still 'unknown'. The tone in Rickard's voice assured Geralt it was a matter regarding House Stark, but he didn't know in what way it concerned them.

"_Seven hells,_ Ger, you fight like the Warrior!" Eddard was panting, but neither the sweat nor the cool breath leaving his mouth hid his smile. Geralt twirled his greatsword with one hand, quickly holding it in both hands and taking on a defensive stance. Geralt let out a cheeky grin. "'Seven hells'? 'The Warrior'? I know why father called you back north now, Ned. Any more time in the Eyrie and you'll be talking like a damn southron."

"Aye, I'm afraid my only northern companion in the Vale is the Heart Tree they still have. And if I would sleep and eat beneath their roof, I ought to behave as they'd have me. Only someone as stubborn as you would never change, Ger." Eddard laughed and Geralt did the same. It was cut short at Geralt's charge. Ned swung down in a two handed strike, but Geralt met his blade with strike of his own. Between his strength and Mormont's sword, Eddard's weapon flew from his hands. He was left staring with his mouth agape. "Geralt, you're really half a wolf, do you know that?"

"Direwolf, Ned, it's in our banners, remember?" His response was cheeky, but Geralt picked up his brother's sword and tossed it to him. Eddard reacted fast to catch it, but held up a hand in defeat. Geralt held back a frown that his brother was done with the combat. _He's the only one here who's shown any new moves. Bran's a damn good fighter, but we've been at it for years, there's nothing surprising about sparring with him._ Eddard seemed to have picked up on his discontentment before pointing at the greatsword. "Have you named it yet, Ger?"

"Actually, I have." Geralt replied with a short grin. Eddard's face was even, but he could see the worry underneath. He rolled his eyes, "No, I didn't name it 'Orphan's Tears', Ned. Father wouldn't have allowed it."

"Tell me how many times that's stopped you from doing as you like." The Quiet Wolf asked with his arms crossed. Geralt shook his head, looking at the sword in his hand. His grip was loose for a moment, and it was tightly wrapped by his fingers in the next. "Its name is Wolf's Claw."

"Wolf's Claw? That's a rather good name, actually. Would it have anything to do with Lord Jeor's sword being named Longclaw?" Geralt smiled and nodded. "It is. Figured I owe it to him I have a damn good sword of my liking, so I wanted something that was mine without forgoing his name."

"Then I'm sure your enemies will loathe to see you wield it in battle, Ger. If today's training is anything to go off on, you have the makings of a knight." _And what you saw was me holding back, Ned,_ he thought. He took a moment to visualize his brother's words. He loved the North and its winds and snows, but a part of him knew he could live with the southron heat. And he certainly preferred steel for armor rather than boiled leathers. His sword he would have to discard, however, for something more suitable for his size upon manhood. The only detail of that image that failed to fit in his mind was the idea of _ser_ preceding his name. His thoughts went to Essos. "Or perhaps a mercenary commander. The world is large, Ned."

"Ger, if you come and tell me you'd be fighting for slavers' wars, I'll smack you. There's no glory in taking bloody gold from that lot." Geralt rolled his eyes at his brother's impeccable honor. "Then I'd just take my spoils from Braavos and Pentos, Ned. Or I'd steal them from the Dothraki. All I know is my place is in the field, with a sword by my side."

"You're mad, Ger. Let's go to the Godswood, it must be noon now. It's been long since the five of us have been together, we ought to enjoy it." At that, Geralt nodded. There was contentment in walking with his brother out of the Great Keep and to the Godswood in the midday and not at the hour of the wolf. It had been a fortnight since Eddard had arrived, and Rickard had given his litter plenty of room to enjoy their time together. Geralt sighed at that. _If he's allowing this much from us, it's that there's something he intends for us to do. Doesn't matter, though, not right now. Now we can enjoy ourselves._ As the pair met up with Brandon, Lyanna and Benjen, Geralt's mind drifted to the black pup in the depth of those woods. He had dreamt once that he was in the wolf again, trotting with his pack sister. He'd gorged on goats and hares, and the scars he'd gained against the white queen only made him stronger.

The meeting started happily, the five gathering and laughing before the Heart Tree. It wasn't long before Lyanna threw a snowball at Geralt, which missed and hit Brandon instead. The following battle was one of vigor, alliances, betrayals, and no victors. Even with his face and clothes pelted with snow, Geralt had never felt so warm. Eddard grew tired first, and when he refused to fight, so did Lyanna. Benjen followed her lead, and Geralt and Brandon remained. With the two remaining, they gave each other a few shots before agreeing to a ceasefire. That had shocked the three witnesses, and when Lyanna mocked them for it, the two simply threw the rest of their rounds at her. That had nearly started another war.

By the end of it, the five sat on different roots of the Heart Tree, each taking the time to speak of their lives. Benjen had the least to say, but the group convinced him to go first regardless. His was mostly spent around training lessons under Rodrik or history lessons with Luwin. He was almost too reserved in speaking of his time, until Brandon teased him about him spending so much of his days with the blue rose. Geralt wasn't able to tell if Benjen had grown pale at that or if he had blushed. Either ways, it took a single snowball from Lyanna thrown at the eldest of the group to get him off the topic. Eddard managed to keep the peace and had Benjen speaking more on himself. By the end of it, the group learned of his dreams to become a proper knight, perhaps even Kingsguard.

Lyanna immediately demanded she go next. None refused her, and the She-Wolf spoke at length of her swords lessons and her improvements. She spoke at length of how she begged their father to allow her to leave for Bear Island, where the Mormonts could teach her better. A part of Geralt worried for Chitch losing the only lady friend she'd ever had, but he knew his sister could not and would not ever be chained to a single place. And if she did go to where the bear warriors lived and practiced, he'd be sure to visit. He was of the mind to show Jeor Mormont how well his gift sword had served him, and he said as much to the group.

Brandon spoke after, speaking of the duties Lord Rickard had passed onto him. He found the maintenance of Winterfell, counting the supplies and provisions and the everyday commoner's problems and requests a bore and the Lady of Winterfell's task, but their father insisted they should all know the way to maintain the castle. With that, he gave the younger Starks a brief warning on the impending boredom that would approach them with said lessons. After, he spoke boasts and nurtured his pride again, speaking of many lord's sons he'd beaten in jousts, and even the lords themselves. They called him more centaur than man with the riding skills natural to him. Or so he said. They all shared a good laugh when Geralt commented on said lords' daughters mounting him like one. Brandon laughed the loudest, speaking that it was a lordly matter to allow 'his lady to mount and not be mounted'. When Lyanna threw another snowball, he dodged it.

Eddard brought forth new tales from the Vale. He spoke at length of Jon Arryn, who was perhaps the only man who could best their father in matters of honor and justice, according to his words. Lord Yohn Royce, who would at times oversee his, Elbert Arryn's and Robert Baratheon's training with the Eyrie's master-at-arms, Nestor Royce. While the three could take on Nestor at their best, mostly through Robert's strength and leadership, the four of them could not face the great Bronze Yohn. The lord was apparently closer to seven feet of height than six, and his gruff attitude in no way hindered his will and talent for fighting. The man himself, though, had a strict sense of duty and honor, which led him to sport a liking for the Quiet Wolf. Elbert Arryn himself was becoming a friend to the two lord's sons, sporting in part some of his uncle's temperance and a wickedness he'd learned from Robert. Lyanna would growl whenever the Baratheon was mentioned, but Benjen made a remark of the wonders of a wolf, a stag and an eagle befriending one another.

Finally it was Geralt's turn. It took some prying from the others to get him to speak, but he worked out in his mind what to include and what to leave out of his stories. He picked one, and that being the one of the direwolf, the snow bear and the Heart Tree. He spoke of brief nightmares and sleepless nights, forgoing the contents of his mind within the realms of his subconscious, and his solution to remain by the sacred forest. He spoke of finding a wounded black wolf running from a snow bear, and of the fast alliance the two formed to take the great she-beast down. It was hard, but he mostly went unscathed, or so he told, and the two managed to bring down the beast, and Geralt used Wolf's Claw to cleave her skull in. He was met with incredulous gazes at first, but any disbelief they felt dissolved when they remembered Geralt's aversion to lies. Brandon grunted he'd been scared half to death that he'd found his brother at the gates of the Great Keep bloody and cold, but was relieved that it wasn't his. Lyanna lamented that he did not bring the wolf to Winterfell and kept him as a pet.

"He wouldn't have been free." Was all Geralt replied. They continued speaking with each other until it began getting dark out and their bellies protested in hunger. They returned to the Great Hall to find something of a private feast for the lot of them. The boar and the venison was finely made, and Benjen and Lyanna sated themselves on lemon cakes once the dinner was done. Rickard sat at the head of the table, smiling, listening to his children's antics. Geralt hid a frown. He could see melancholy behind their father's eyes, and the only other person whom he suspected had picked up on that had been Eddard. The two made a look and knew better than to speak of it during the night. He'd been half expecting for the Lord of Winterfell to call them to their solar once they were done, but instead he bade them good night and off to their rooms they went. Geralt kept his expression unreadable and bored, but when no one was looking, grabbed Eddard by the shoulder and led him through another hall.

"Geralt?" He said nothing until he was sure they were alone at the hall. It was night, so naturally the castle was far less lively, but he knew his missions out into the Godswood had upped the number of guards patrolling the inside. "Father's hiding something."

"Naturally, Ger. He's the Lord of Winterfell. There are matters I imagine he can discuss with no one given his position." Eddard answered evenly. Geralt fought the urge to roll his eyes at his brother's mildness. "That's _obvious,_ Ned. I mean it's something to do with us. This is the most freedom he's given us to be out and about to do as we like in a long time. And it goes beyond your visit, he wasn't like this the last time you came."

"And if it regards us, Ger, I don't doubt he'll tell us. We can't press him on at a time like this. We'll make this worse on him and ourselves." Geralt shook his head. "We're not pressing him for the truth, we're listening to what he has to say _without_ him knowing."

"Listening? You mean spying? Geralt, you can't be serious."

"I am serious, Ned. Father means to do something, we best know what that is. Benjen's too young, and Brandon and Lyanna may just barge right into his place if they hear something that upsets them." Eddard furrowed his brows. "You're hardly different, Geralt. Asides, how are you so sure spying on father will lead to anything? He'd have to meet with someone for us to overhear what he has to say, and we'd need to overhear the right thing as well."

"He didn't say it Ned, but he's had that look all night, and you know that too. And if he _did_ mean to go to rest alone, he would've gone directly to his solar. If I had to guess, he's going to Luwin's room. And what better confidant could a lord have than his resident Maester? It's not like he has mother to discuss these issues with anymore."

Eddard frowned at that, but ultimately sighed in defeat and followed Geralt's lead. Geralt himself frowned as he led his older brother. _Someday, Ned, you'll have to stand for yourself and not let another rule you. Even if it's your own blood. _He felt halfway guilty in abusing his Eddard's weakness, but he was determined to hear what his father had to say. True to his guess, Rickard's detour had led him to Luwin's study, and true to their luck, the door was open by just an inch. Putting a finger to his lips, he gestured to Eddard so they could both listen in.

"…one else? Brandon's to be betrothed to Catelyn Tully, so through him, the North and the Riverlands would be joined, perhaps the most important of the marriages. They may not be Targaryens nor Lannisters, but they're directly adjacent to our territory. Add finding Eddard an Arryn bride, and three neighboring kingdoms would be bound by blood. Only problem is the piss-poor luck the Arryns have had in producing an heir, never mind a lady to marry off. Eddard seems to get along well enough with Elbert, he speaks well of the lad, perhaps that will help him find a wife from the Vale."

"That is true, my lord, though perhaps you could look to House Royce to make for another bond to the Vale?"

"I've pondered on that myself, Luwin, but it won't do. It might be far and stretched, but I find that distant branches of the same name carry more… _clearness _in their title. Whether she be a direct descendant or the fifth-born of the third cousin of Jon Arryn, should Eddard's bride be named Arryn as well, the name alone should shield him from any possible misgivings between our houses. For that matter, the Tyrells should be the easiest to come to terms with. There are almost as many of them as there are flowers in the Reach, so that should make for Benjen's bride as well, in due time. Lyanna is already to be betrothed to Robert Baratheon, so we continue to grow the links between the kingdoms, and Geralt…"

"What about Geralt, my lord?"

"Geralt's… Geralt's a different case. Where the others may be subjects to my matchmaking, there isn't a thing I can do with him that will end well without his direct consent to it. He's unruly, and I love him as well as the others, but I'm having a hard time coming up with anything for him. Assuming that we have certain bonds with the Tullys, Arryns and Baratheons, we'd have to come up with brides from two other kingdoms. Quellon has not produced a daughter, so the Greyjoys are out of the question. That's a shame in itself, Geralt is just irreverent enough that he could tame the Iron Islands himself. The Tyrells… they'd be like to ask for two hands rather than one, but I mean to make the most of my five children, and the Tyrells are the best I could think of for Benjen."

"But my lord, you're his father. He has to know you mean well when you see to your children's futures."

"You're aren't such a new addition to Winterfell anymore, Maester Luwin, you know Geralt's… _tendencies._ He's too stubborn to do as I tell him without him agreeing. He means well, but he won't settle for anything that _he himself_ hasn't chosen. I know he'd look for something himself, but that won't do, not in this short time. The proposal to the Daynes may yet be re-opened with some luck, but I would prefer something of a larger scale. His brothers and sister have duties, so does he. Greyjoys are not an option, and Targaryens _far less._ I'd sooner be burnt at the stake than let him move so far south with the Aerys growing wilder and wilder. Perhaps the Martells… to be truthful, Luwin, _I don't have an answer._ And I need to find one that works. Eddard will do his duty and Benjen as well. But if Geralt rebels, he'll unknowingly invite Brandon and Lyanna into that open rebellion, and all will fall apart. I've been sleeping little as of late, would you give me some Essence of Nightshade? Perhaps some proper rest will allow me to find a solution to this maddening matter."

"Of course, my lord. Three drops will do. Any more than that, and I fear Winterfell shall have a fretless night attempting to wake you."

"My thanks, Luwin, I'll be seeing you tomorrow over this."

Geralt grabbed Eddard's wrist and ran behind the corner of the right hallway. The two held their breaths as they heard the door open and their father walk softly to the other end. Geralt sighed and looked to Eddard. He sported a knowing look this time, one of expectant disappointment. Geralt scoffed. "Don't give me that look."

"Father's right, Geralt." The words frustrated him more than they had the right to. "The hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Ger, I've half a mind to believe you might just be father's favorite. You've denied his plans at every turn in favor of what you like. You won't settle for anything he says, he's the one that has to listen to you. Of course he's worried. You were right, father did have something planned. He'll be announcing the betrothals and talks of future wards soon enough, and everyone will look to you when they realize you won't be subjected to it where the rest of us have our duties." Geralt growled. "I've been trying to help father, Ned. And I've been pretty damn busy myself, I already agreed to find myself a betrothal to aid him."

"And how far have you come? Would you have one for tomorrow? Or have you been training with your sword every day?" Geralt got close to Eddard then. "And _you,_ Ned? _Do you have_ _any teeth at all?_ Do you have any dreams? Have you ever thought for yourself in all your years in Winterfell, or is everything you do at someone else's orders?"

Eddard looked taken aback, and for a moment, Geralt felt regret. But his brother was ice in the next moment, his face betraying nothing. "I can, and I do. I chose the Vale, I chose House Arryn and I chose to stay along with Robert. And when the time comes, I will pick my own wife with Lord Jon's and father's approval. The fact that I live with rules does not mean my life is chained by them. And you say you're your own man and you'll always be your own man, but where has your word gotten you? You've done well to train yourself to become the warrior you've always wanted to be, but when you said you would help father in finding your own arrangement, what have you found? Aye, you're far stronger than me, far more independent than the rest of us, but the truth is, Geralt, that you're also the most selfish out of all of us."

And with that, the Quiet Wolf turned on his heels and marched away. A hundred and one thoughts passed through Geralt's head, from apologies he meant to give to his brother to ceaseless insults he would curse him with. In the end, he chose silence, and took a moment in contemplation. It wasn't until the shuffling and clinking of chains shook him from his stupor. "Geralt? Pardon the intrusion, I do believe I overheard you and Eddard speaking not far from my office. I wouldn't presume to accuse you of such, but I imagine it wasn't happenstance that your squabble would be so near me just after your father left, would it?"

He didn't have it in himself to be surprised when he found Luwin standing by his door. His face was curious and gentle, enough for Geralt to know his father would not be informed of his late-night activities. He shook his head. "I'm behind on my studies, Luwin. Haven't found myself a bride yet."

"A complex study, no doubt. You surely have your family's support in your efforts as well as mine. It is rather late, but if you have need of my assistance, you are more than welcome to it." Geralt looked into his eyes for a moment. He nodded. "And I'll have it."

With that, he walked into the office, the Maester's chains chiming to an arrhythmic tune when he followed him in. It was easy to forget the grandness of the Great Keep's own library, but looking at halls and halls of books, tomes and scrolls, Geralt found himself half nauseous. Luwin's soft chuckling came from behind him. "Worry not, my lord, you won't have to search far and wide in these halls to seek what you want. Truthfully, if you mean to find what your father wants for you, you need look little. Lord Rickard wants marriages to only to families at the head of other kingdoms, which you would find in _Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms._ I was about to store it in its place when I heard you and Eddard outside. You will find it on that table with the candle."

Geralt nodded his thanks and sat himself down in front of the great text, the words seeming like little more than dead and broken ants in the midst of an enormous yellowed page. He growled internally. He began reading names, the color of their hair and shade of their eyes and found himself bored to death already. A grunt from him brought a chuckle from Luwin. "A rather dull read compared to the present Eddard gave you for your nameday. However, it was written two years ago, a rather good way to instruct yourself on current members of noble houses, as well as their ancestors and way of life."

"Seven hells, Luwin, and you've read the whole damn thing yourself too?" Luwin smiled and motioned to several links of the chains around his neck. "No Maester is allowed to be sent to a Great Lord without at least four copper chains. We must bear knowledge of the Seven Kingdoms and the influences of the histories of the intertwined royal families within them. That includes the most recent households and how they have grown or, in some unfortunate cases, ceased to exist."

"So that's what the copper chains are? What of the others?" Luwin smile and sat down in front of him, taking the time to show each of the links. "From yellow gold to steel to brass to iron, we are trained to understand everything from finances to smithing, astronomy and warfare. My own specialties have lied in history, where my links are numbered seven, lead for geography, mapmaking and weather are six, and pewter, household management, are eight. Tin, steel, red gold, I've had five forged for each, each for philosophy, politics, midwifery, agriculture and animal husbandry."

"And the Valyrian steel?" Luwin's eyebrows rose at that, fumbling at his neck for a moment before retrieving only two black links. They drank the light just as Lord Rickard's Ice did and held all the same elegance and power. "Only two, I'm afraid, twice as many as the rest of the Maesters have. Valyrian steel is exclusive for the high mysteries, of magics and the eras buried beneath the sands of time. A time of dragons and the Others and many more things we have lost in our memories."

"All Maesters have only one?"

"One they immediately receive when the first lesson is learned. All to remember the simple matter that magic has long since left this world, and the last of the dragons died a century ago. Only one of the Maesters held an obsession over it, forged multiple links of Valyrian steel for his studies. If he should continue on that path, perhaps he could become the Archmaester of such knowledge, and earn the mask, ring and staff of Valyrian Steel. Such things have not been used in decades. The fact alone that the spot of an Archmaester of the higher mysteries has been missing for decades makes the man that much more of a curiosity. He is self-taught in his craft."

"And I imagine he looks like a starving Essosi mage. Did he hide from the sunlight to protect his pale, thin skin? Were his lips blue from drinking Shade of the Evening?" Luwin raised a brow at that. _My training doesn't interfere with my lessons, Luwin. I've been listening._ His wrinkles showed when he smiled. _It's a wonder he's of an age with father._ "Why, he was the exact opposite. To look at him, you would think he was build to be a soldier, if said soldier had the body of an ox. He was burly, gruff and leathery of skin as far as I remember. The other Maesters who mocked him made sure to do so out of earshot, I believe they were too intimidated by the sight of him. Some even rumored that he'd killed a man with his bare hands."

"And you, Luwin? Was he friend or foe to you?" Geralt asked. He tried to imagine a shaven bull with chains around his neck and in a Maester's robes. _It's a wonder that kind of a man would choose a library over a battlefield. Hell, I have half a mind he means to make off with the Valyrian steel if he achieves his goal and make himself a weapon with it._ "Neither, I'm afraid. Maester Marwyn is a man of few companions, absolute focus and rather poor skills in treating with other Maesters. He was more of the company of harlots, hedge wizards and sellswords. I did make it a point to show that I held nothing against me and offered help in whatever he should need. In turn, he lent me a few good books when it came to Winterfell, its alleged ancient magics in its giants and Children of the Forest, theories on the construction of the Wall, and other such works of our country's unique past. It earned me the second link. When your lord father requested a Maester from the citadel with such specialties, he focused a little on that as well. I myself was eager to return to the North, so I accepted my place eagerly."

"And you had all of Wulfric's best qualities through a northman's voice. That would get the lords off my father's back… I trust your silence on this, Luwin, and you'll have mine. I did hear his plans so far, that includes that he is of a mind to marry us off to the Riverlands, the Vale, the Stormlands and the Reach. That leaves fewer kingdoms to settle with." Luwin bobbed his head at that, chains jingling. "The problem with this is that by sorting out the families exclusively to the highest bloodlines, fewer matches are left. House Tyrell would serve well for multiple hands as their house is large and prolific, but it would take a great measure of luck for House Arryn to produce and maintain a lady for Eddard to marry, if their poor luck is anything to go by. The remaining Great Houses to serve well for you are fewer for it."

"I see the problem now. If that's the case, however, then House Dayne should have never been part of his plans. They're under the Martells, not above them." Geralt replied, looking over the purple and white banners and the current names under them. Luwin nodded. "Lord Rickard was prepared to settle for that, as he suspected an old, respected house famous for their Swords of the Morning would be the only way to have you settle for his plans. Your rejection left him wanting, but your willingness to help him gave him hope again."

"Not much hope to have when the Great Houses have failed to make daughters. The Greyjoys have none, and the Martells have only one. Seven hells, she's ten years my elder, I doubt that would work." Luwin sighed deeply at that. "Not only that, but she is to be the queen soon. King Aerys has recently rejected his Lord Hand's offer for his daughter and chosen to humiliate him by calling him a mere servant. Prince Rhaegar is to marry princess Elia Martell, and Lord Tywin Lannister has resigned as Hand of the King. I'm afraid neither the Martells nor the Greyjoys are options, much less the Targaryens."

Geralt listened to the family names Luwin had listed, and he listened to the one that he did not. _Perhaps…_ He turned the pages of the book until he found what he looked for. _They certainly don't lack for branches, and the girls seem to be of my age._ He muttered the names under his breath, doing his best to remember them. When the Maester looked over his shoulder, his face turned grim. "My lord Geralt, there's a reason I have not mentioned them. Your father has a very strong aversion to–"

"It's the only option left, Luwin. Any one of the rest would need to produce a daughter within this year, and I'd prefer not to wait for fourteen years for my future betrothed to come of age, nor for me to be fourteen years older than her. And if one of us had to go that far south_,_ there's no way in hell I'd allow for Benjen to become a ward there. Father would agree on that." With that he closed the book and left for his room. He'd memorized the names well enough, he'd learn the rest when his father accepted his proposal. When he slept that night, he dreamt of castles and banners and swords and blood. They were not Westerosi in any way, but he remembered waking up in the middle of a battlefield. A boy a little older than him extended his hand to him, silver hair flowing in the wind. _'Get up, Guts.'_ He woke up nauseous from that.

The morning sun rose fast that morning, the rushing and bustling of the Great Keep leading Winterfell's pack to find their way back to the dining hall. Rickard arrived last and ate with them with smiles that reached his eyes. Somehow, there skin under his eyes still held dark hues. _And that was with the Essence of Nightshade. Father may just be as terrible sleeping as I am._ He focused on the food, with Lyanna occasionally speaking to him until she realized he wasn't listening. Eggs, bacon burnt black, blood sausages and honeyed bread made for their breakfast, and soon enough the five were as happy as they could be. There had been a couple of times that Geralt had glanced at Eddard, but never managed to meet his gaze. _You'll be eating your words as well soon, brother._ Their father rose first. "Now then, all of you. Follow me to my solar, there are important announcements I mean to make to you lot."

"What's it about, father?" Benjen piped up. Rickard's smile was warm, placing a large hand on the boy's head and ruffling his hair. "You'll learn once we're there, pup. Come on."

As Rickard began walking, Brandon, Lyanna and Benjen shared a look, though they failed to note it was one-sided when they turned to Eddard and Geralt. It was only then that the Quiet Wolf looked to him, one just as unreadable as the other. Neither said anything, and the other three looked at the pair inquisitively. Eddard shook his head. "We best not keep father waiting. He rarely ever calls on us together, and he never overstates the importance of those matters when he says it is so."

He walked first, for once leading the pack. Geralt frowned and caught up fast enough to be on his side. Neither spoke, and the other three had no choice but to follow silently. In his solar, they found an intricate map of Westeros on his desk, marking its cities and terrain with perfect detail. Standing behind his desk, the five found that the map was facing them. Rickard motioned to five chairs on the other side for them to sit, no doubt moved there just for the occasion. When they sat, they remained quiet. Brandon and Lyanna looked like they wanted to speak, but their father's austerity marked a silence only he was allowed to break. He leaned forwards on his desk, looking over at the map time and time again. Closest to him was the North, whereas the South pointed at them. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and looked up again.

"I have made more than a few arrangements over the past few moons. Arrangements that will determine the future of House Stark. I like to believe I've been fair to you all for all my life. You've wanted training by the sword and dancing lessons? I've given them. You've wanted the freedom to ride and race each other in the fields? By my word, you've had it. You've chosen households to go to, lands to discover, places to explore? I have taken you there myself. And where there is a time for pleasure of one's own choosing, there is also a time for duty for a calling higher than yourself." He spoke with distinct pauses, and his voice was soft, but his eyes were hard and strict. Brandon shook his head. "Of course, father, what do you need us to do?"

"To follow your duties, Bran, and your brothers and sister as well. House Stark has been the ruling house of the North, and that entails the largest piece of land in all the Seven Kingdoms, larger than the other six combined. That is one of several reasons we have stuck with our own, choosing to do little more than to deepen our bonds with our sworn houses even more. It's time, however, that we looked southwards, and to truly link ourselves with our neighbors." Rickard stopped for a moment and stood straight. He turned directly to Brandon and set his eyes upon him. He pointed just south of the North. "Brandon, I have spoken with Lord Hoster Tully. After much talks, you are now betrothed to his eldest daughter, Catelyn Tully. Through you, the North and the Riverlands shall be bound by blood, the blood of your children."

Geralt looked at Brandon swallowing the lump in his throat. It did not take a Maester to see the discontentment in his face, no matter how he tried to hide it. Eddard looked almost indifferent by comparison, though hints of worries spread to his eyes. Lyanna looked the worst, eyes bulging and gripping to the hands of her chair tightly. Only Benjen looked curious to what went on. Rickard turned to Eddard. "I've spoken to Jon Arryn as well. He and I share the mind of allowing you to choose an Arryn bride for yourself, Eddard. We would have you choose one who is healthy, one that you yourself would choose as well. And given his orphandom, he speaks on behalf of Robert Baratheon as well, who will be Lyanna's betrothed once the two are of age."

"_NO!_" Lyanna's scream was shrill, so much so that Geralt had to hold his ear the way he'd hold a freshly bleeding wound. Lyanna was on her feet, hands balled into fists. Rickard's face betrayed nothing, but he was no longer yielding as he had been in days past. The softness that came when he allowed her fighting lessons was missing, only that of a lord's severity remained. She bit her bottom lip at that. "You can't marry me to that… that _oaf,_ father, I won't stand for it! He's stupid and brutish and I've heard of how he likes to drink and whore!"

"Yes, you will, Lyanna. I've spoken with Lord Arryn about it as much. Robert seems to follow his own desires, if Jon tells it true, I'll give you that. And he is also well aware of how House Stark will not be shamed by such tendencies. But the lad is young still, barely a man. He has yet to mature, and once he is grown, then you shall be betrothed. He has been made aware that should he continue to do so once that betrothal is set, that the proposal may well be off and that he himself would be victim to your own ire. He's accepted those terms, and in turn, you shall accept these. Similarly, Brandon _will not_ shame Catelyn Tully by bedding girls during and after his betrothal and marriage as to not stain House Stark's own honor." Lyanna was shaking, tears in the corner of her eyes, while Brandon's jaw clenched. Eddard stood up and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You think too low of Robert, I promise you. He's passionate, yes, but he means well. He could never raise a hand to you."

"Easy for you to say, you get to pick your own lady instead of being given some stupid bride! And what of Geralt and Benjen?! Why do we have duties and they get to be free?!" Rickard's angered showed enough for Lyanna to sit back down. "I'll say this once and only once, Lyanna, so listen well. I don't give half a damn what your situation may be, but you never, and I mean _never_ turn on your own brothers, _do you understand me? _Especially when one of them is your youngest brother, who has yet to turn of age."

His tone was sharp and angry, and all Lyanna could do was look down at the floor and nod somberly. Rickard sighed and turned to Benjen. "That being said, I do have duties for you as well, pup. I'm currently in between letters with Olenna Tyrell. You might be the fifth child of House Stark and my fourth son, but you are still my blood, and I would see you marry someone worthy of you in due time. The Tyrells themselves are many and more, and I'm sure they have no lack of pretty lasses your age you could be betrothed to in time. If all goes well, within the coming months, you're to become their ward. If that happens, stand tall and be proud, for your name is Benjen Stark of Winterfell. You are sweet, Ben, but you're also a direwolf. Always maintain courtesies, but never forget your fangs, my boy."

As he said that, he stood by Benjen, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. The Pup looked nervous, but he nodded as soon as Rickard finished speaking, trying to sit taller in his chair. Geralt looked on, Rickard giving him a brief look before turning back to his place behind the desk. Lyanna spoke softly. "…What of Geralt?"

"Aye, father, what of Geralt? I do not mean to turn on him, we're a pack, but you've spoken to each of us of our duties to House Stark, understandably so. You have not yet spoken of Geralt's own." Brandon followed. When Geralt looked at him, Brandon's face was solemn, but not incriminating. Their father looked at him now, jaw mildly clenched. He could see a thousand words behind his eyes, hundreds of thoughts and ideas that would not escape him. When the silence reached its peak and all waited for an answer, Geralt stood up and walked towards the map. He pointed at the top of the scroll.

"I already have mine. The Riverlands are south of the North's only border, that's why their allegiance is the most important, why only Bran could be important enough to seal the marriage. Ned's won Jon Arryn seven times over, so an Arryn bride seems like a good fit for the second son of the North, and a bridge with our seaward neighbors. Robert Baratheon fell for Lyanna by luck, so that would unite us to the Stormlands, which would be isolated if not for Benjen's future bond to the Reach. That leaves the Martells, but they just gave their only daughter's hand to Prince Rhaegar. Quellon Greyjoy has not produced a daughter, and it's rather late for him to make one at this point. The Targaryens have none, and even if they did, Aerys is too mad to make for a reliable host at this point. To the west, however, Casterly Rock has several branches, and I'm sure Tywin Lannister could use a link to another army, especially considering how his king humiliated him by turning away his daughter's hand."

The room was heavy with unpleasant silence, and Rickard's eyes widened farther than Geralt had ever seen them do. Brandon and Lyanna looked flabbergasted, seemingly having no response to his practiced answer. Benjen looked afraid, and Eddard apprehensive. Beneath the latter's tension, however, there was a healthy amount of respect, which was only confirmed through an almost imperceptible nod. Geralt acknowledge and returned an even shorter one, before looking to their father. "With this, we'd have a link to four of the Seven Kingdoms and the Riverlands. We'd be lacking the Crownlands and the Foot, but then we'd have enough links to–"

"No." The Lord of Winterfell was silent, and his answer quieter still. His eyes had yet to blink and his gaze had yet to leave Geralt. He frowned at that, remembering the other arguments he'd practiced the night before. "I don't pretend to ask for Cersei Lannister's hand, I don't expect Lord Tywin to give it to a thirdborn son, regardless of my status as a Stark. There are others from other branches that are my age. Not the highest standing, but if I remember right, there's a Cerenna and a Myrielle Lannister that are cousins to–"

"I said _no._" Rickard didn't raise his tone, but his voice was steel. His mouth had spread his lips thin with his grimace, and none of his siblings dared say anything to him. Geralt himself grew angry. _I didn't spend the night looking through that damn book, trying to do my duty for the family for you to dismiss it so early. _"He'll say yes, father, you know he will. There's much to gain and little to lose from such an alliance, and all other options are out. You were saying that we all need to do our duties, weren't you? Lyanna and Brandon were rather pissed I had none, and I've just proposed mine, _as we agreed._ So why don't you stop acting like a damn coward and let me–"

Before he could finish his sentence, he was looking right with his left cheek stinging angrily. The slap his father gave him rang across the room like a silver plate falling to the floor. Looking from the corner of his eye, he had to struggle to keep a straight face. Laughter would erupt from his throat if he continued thinking about how his siblings looked more stricken than he felt. His expression turned to steel and looked back at his father, whose face was solemn and tired. He never faltered, and he certainly didn't yield. Eddard's voice came from the back. "Father, Geralt was only trying to–"

"All of you, wait outside. You've heard what I meant for you to hear." He had not raised his voice in all that time, and the four remained awkwardly in place for a moment. Eventually, they heeded their father's orders, Eddard bravely gripping Geralt's shoulder in comfort before walking with the others. Geralt had not moved, and his face had not changed. When the door closed, Rickard closed his eyes and sighed deeply, slumping back on his chair. Geralt didn't move. His father looked at him again. "You can sit down, Geralt. I don't plan to strike you again."

It took a few seconds for Geralt to do as he said, relaxing his posture and dragging a chair closer to the desk. Rickard observed his face for a while. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "What am I to do with you, my boy?"

"Listening would be a good start. You told me about your plan in confidence, father, about the necessity of bloodlines linked together, of how only those of the Great Houses would do. House Lannister is a Great House, and they're the only ones where I may find candidates with–"

"I know, I know that, damn it. I know it well. Did it occur to you that I hadn't considered that option myself already? After the Targaryens, the Lannisters were the last house I wanted to send _any_ of you to. Even the Greyjoys, whose history is dark and full of pillaging, have grown better with Quellon's guidance and rejection of their old ways. The Martells can be a poisonous bunch, but they have no quarrel with us, and they are renowned for being kind to children. It's nothing short of misfortune that only the Lannisters may have candidates for you to wed. Under Tywin Lannister, they may be the most intelligently ruthless house in Westeros." Geralt leaned in closer. "Which is why I proposed I go there, not Benjen. If anyone can survive there, father, it's me."

Rickard looked at him again, shaking his head slowly. "_Never_ underestimate Tywin Lannister, Geralt, especially if you're already overestimating yourself. You're strong, I don't doubt that, but the Great Lion is _indominable. _Have you never heard the Rains of Castamere? The houses of Reyne and Tarbeck once dared rebel themselves against his father. Even without old Tytos's leave, Tywin went on his own and wiped those traitors from existence. Not their lords, not their soldiers, but everyone in those lands down to the last man, woman and child. He saved his house from debt and weakness, and he did so through the blood of his enemies. Hells, if I had to gamble on it, I'd wager that Aerys's constant derision and mockery of Tywin is his fear of his old Hand's strength. The fact that the King had so many good years reigning Westeros were hardly his doing, it was Tywin that helmed them. And he has just resigned, after Aerys denied Cersei Lannister's hand for Rhaegar. There's tension in those households, and I'd be sending you to Casterly Rock while the King has his sights on it."

"Father, it's the only way. Odds are Lyanna will run away before Robert even steps a foot past Moat Cailin if she thinks I'm getting the easy end of it. Brandon and I get along better now, but he'll be jealous too. I'm not overestimating myself, and I'm not underestimating Tywin Lannister. You say he's ruthless, but he's intelligent as well. He has no reason to turn away a potential ally, much less one as large and strong as the North." Geralt put emphasis on his final words, and Rickard raised a brow. "Do you really believe that? Living under Tywin's room will not be the same as living under mine, far from it. He's hard and he gives orders, whether you're his blood or a guest. And he _never _negotiates, especially if it regards someone directly under him. _You_ will be directly under him. You won't be able to just sneak out as you like nor disregard his instructions as you've done with me. Hells, I don't even know if they have a Weirwood tree in Casterly Rock. If you mean to go there and not just survive, but _thrive_ and earn a Lannister lady, you'll have to be impeccable with him."

"And I will, father, you have my word. You said I could help you to accomplish your dream, that I would aid you in uniting Westeros through common blood, and that I could choose how and with whom. This is my choice." Rickard stared at him intently. He lowered his face unto his hands and sighed, rubbing his temple with the tips of his fingers. "…Someday, you'll be the death of me, Geralt… Very well, I'll write to Casterly Rock, see if Ser Stafford's daughters aren't already engaged to other vassal houses. Lord Tywin is not a man to rush decisions, but he wastes no time either. Expect an answer soon."

**Author's Notes: And there you have it. With this, you have the preliminary matchmaking Rickard planned, and a now much better idea for what's to come for Geralt. Canonically, two important changes I made are evident in this chapter, and they might not be too clear because the events are not explicitly detailed in the books. The first is Tywin resigning as Hand of the King when Aerys rejected the wedding proposal "I can't marry my son to my servant's daughter". In the books, he tries to resign this way, but is unsuccessful, why, I don't know. In this one he was, so he's back in Casterly Rock a little earlier than in the canon. **

**Secondly, I'm making Myrielle and Cerenna Lannister (and by extension, Daven Lannister), two cousins of Cersei, Jaime and Tyrion older than they are actually. Otherwise, Geralt would essentially be a teen courting two children. Beyond that, I'm excited to get on to the next part, I think there's plenty to use and capitalize on. Hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I have writing, and I hope to hear your thoughts in your reviews!**

**The Almighty Afroduck,**

**All hail**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes: And unto a new arc! Howdy do, ladies and gentlemen, it's good to be back. Last uni semester, so expect the updates to be spaced out, but hey, at least this chapter is longer than the last one. Regarding reviews, there's not much to specifically respond to, but there's a recurring theme in some of them. I don't want to spoil much, but I want to make something that I hinted at clearer: Guts's reincarnation is a singular thing. The point of him being reincarnated was that _he was the only one to die from the Berserk side of the story._ In fact, more than just reincarnating, he's the only one who managed to die without being dragged into hell. It was a... _collaborative_ effort between very powerful parties (you'll learn later on the truth), so it's not like this is a story about "guess who - ASOIAF edition". Casca did not reincarnate into a Martell, Griffith is not a Targaryen, and the dead Band of the Hawk was claimed by the Godhand. Guts is in Westeros by luck and important efforts from magic users. Besides that, enjoy the start of the next arc!**

**Lion's Den**

_The wood was thick, the scents hindered by the cold. Winter's reign had been long and harsh, but some moons proved to be kinder than others. Even with many prey and predator slumbering through the frosted underbrush, his nose guided him to the hares and the deer that remained plum and healthy. Flesh and blood tasted sweet in his maw, and the fear that once plagued him against his envious cousins and the lone, lumbering beasts had left him. The man-pup had rid him almost fully of his fears. He gave him rage and bloodlust, defiance against the kings of the woods and the winter's fury. But he also gave him warmth, a reminder of times when his pack was alive, only closer. They had attacked as one, and they had defeated the white queen._

_He smelled the air and howled at the moon. When he dreamt of the man-pup, he dreamt of his pack, now separated as he had once been from his own sister. The two trotted together now, and his sister had picked up stray, lone cousins that would follow them loyally, even as pups. They were ten now, and when he had returned to his sister, the two relished in each other's presence. A duel between the two determined who would lead the pack, and the black wolf had prevailed. Compared to the white queen, he hardly struggled against his sister, and she submitted. He would grow, as he had done so for the moons since he'd encountered the strange black pup, not unlike himself. He'd grow strong until he matured, and when the time came, he would duel with the man and his steel greatclaw._

Geralt awakened to droplets of sweat on his brow and Wolf's Claw at his side. It was strange. His 'wolf dreams' were intense and blood-pumping, but they brought a certain sense of calmness in him. _I march in the day and hunt in my dreams._ Amongst the last things he had read before his march south, he had looked into wargs and ancient northern magics. Luwin's second Valyrian steel chain had served him well for that, and when questioned, he argued he was curious as to what the Maester had studied from the North that would earn him another black link. Few books were as descriptive as those that spoke of men and beasts' anatomies and habits, relying more on legends and songs passed through generations, but those relics of time proved to be enough to teach him what he needed to know.

Skinchanging proved to be wide in the range of the animals it involved, and the strength of the Skinchanger was shown in the number of beasts he subjugated. Wargs were considered the laziest of the lot, who only changed into wolves and dogs, so close to men. Skinchanging, however, could expand to the hawks in the sky and the sharks in the sea. The best of them could have many different bodies. _The more a man's soul spends in a wolf's body, however, the more the wolf's soul remains in the man's body._ They were old tales compiled into one book, and Luwin was mostly dismissive of it, but Geralt found it all to be exactly what he was looking for. And in part, he did his best to keep the link between himself and the black direwolf pup alive, and the young beast did the same. He found his time spent in the wolf's mind helped him steer away from the bloody monstrosities in his true dreams. He found the nights treated him better that way.

As he woke up, he stretched. He got into his smallclothes, and soon after, his leather armor and cloaks. He was barely as equipped as he had been in the North, the southern half of Westeros was not as ravaged by the cold winds, but it was still enough to equip himself properly for it. Once he was out, he found that the camp was still slumbering, unbothered by the morn's first light. Wolf's Claw in hand, he went off a little away, into the fields. That had been a strange thing for him to be accustomed to. Where the woods were thick and the forests were sheltering in the North, the Westerlands had fields and hills and rugged plains along its landscapes. The snowfalls so far were faint and rare, but every so often a cold wind would remind them of the season's reign.

With Wolf's Claw, he swung upwards and downwards, downwards and upwards. He did so a hundred times two-handed, fifty times one-handed in each hand. Even with his awkward left hand, he made sure his strength was even in both sides. As he finished and started over, his mind went over to his father and his siblings. _Lord Tywin has responded, Geralt. He has accepted my offer and will take you in. This in no way means he has a warm spot for me, nor is he in my debt in any way. Rather, I believe it's the other way around now, at least from his point of view. You must not, and I'll repeat myself so you hear me well, you must NOT disobey him. He is not a man that likes to be questioned or challenged, nor is he a mind that seeks meek subservience. He a man with an iron fist coated in gold, and you must act the part of a soldier of iron will, heeding his orders. Anything short of that, Geralt… this is no longer for my sake, it's for yours._

Never had Rickard Stark been so apprehensive about another man, save perhaps for Aerys Targaryen. But Geralt had listened patiently and assured him every time his father grew nervous of his character. He'd also warned him he'd gain little to no visits in his time in Casterly Rock. Winterfell needed Rickard greatly, more so as he began talks with Olenna Tyrell, so he'd not be able to go down south. Brandon would be aiding their father in lordly duties and beginning to assume his position as the future Warden of the North. Eddard had returned to the Vale to Jon Arryn and Robert and Elbert, and Benjen would leave for the Reach in due time. Lyanna had sulked the most since their father announced his plans, and she hardly got better by the time Geralt left. Rickard had had to break hug she gave him at the gates of Winterfell when she wouldn't let go.

The only farewell that had tugged at the strings of his heart was Chitch and her two roses. _'Ger Friend, look! I have two flowers now! Chitch–I am getting better, growing more, full of poppo! So much poppo, Ger Friend!'_ Chitch had never glowed so bright as she had that day, when the second rose finally bloomed from the main stem. Geralt swore she was just a little bit taller as well. He could only imagine the bees surrounding the flower meant more blue roses were growing outside of Winterfell, hopefully all around Westeros. He had wanted to test the theory if the other rose could heal as well as the first, but had neither the time nor the heart to test it on the day of his departure. Chitch had wept and moped when she learned of his future, but wiped her eyes clean of tears and commanded, _'Ger Friend visit Chitch! You will come and visit me and my flowers soon!'_

He said yes and hoped he wasn't lying. He would have been truthful to her, but when she learned Benjen would also move south, he didn't want to break her little heart any further. A small, brief kiss on her forehead, or rather _her entire head_ had been his goodbye, and a head-engulfing hug and numerous pecks had been hers. _And now, I'm making my way to Casterly Rock, home of House Lannister._ The fields he was by were drier, and the coast wasn't far away. If he looked hard enough, he could see the sea from afar, almost hidden by the tall grasses and the shifting sands. And easier to be seen, a great mountain rose by the coast, with an intricate top indicating him that they were not long for the seat of the Warden of the west. They were close now, a month's travels had led them far, and now they were almost there. Beyond the brief snows, easily melted away by the sun's strength, he could see dry greens and yellows and browns along with the great blue in the distance. Some part within him felt conflicted, remembering times in places not unlike the one he was on. Plenty of his dreams of battlefields and warfare made him feel at home, but a foreboding sense of danger latched onto him like a dry leech.

"Lord Geralt! Where are you?! We mustn't waste the day away, we are to reach Lord Tywin Lannister's castle by nightfall!" Ser Rodrik Cassel had been at the head of the small troop of soldiers that had been guarding his passage down. Where it was usually customary to send the ward with a few other boys or girls their age, none of the Northern lords had wanted their lot in Casterly Rock. The only one that entertained the idea was Astor Bolton, who meant to send Roose along with him. Much to both his and Rickard's relief, Tywin Lannister had only explicitly accepted Geralt, not more. _I suppose lions prefer wolves over flayed men._ Rickard had in turn offered to take in the young Bolton heir, but his father declined, claiming he was to learn their 'olden ways'. Geralt chose to think little of that, but he knew his father sent a few discreet scouts to make sure their 'ways' weren't amongst those outlawed centuries before.

The northmen would be guests to Casterly Rock for a fortnight, then return north, though that made the men no less excited of visiting the legendary mountain. The travel had been a journey and a half. While they attempted to stay by local inns and guest worthy keeps, many nights had been passed by campfires and tents. Half of the men cared little for it, the other half complained about it. Geralt felt at home. In the woods, sword by his side, he felt whole. As he made it back to the camp, he was looking at Ser Rodrik angrily wiping his boiled leather halfhelm, patting away the night's grubs. Putting Wolf's Claw in its sheath, he came upon the elder. "I'm ready."

Ser Rodrik gave a huff and his whiskers twitched before barking at his men, the lot rousing with the rising sun. It wasn't long until they were on horseback, well on their way to the blue horizon. His mind returned to the ride south. Of the long stretch of the North, ending in the Neck. Of House Reed and the bogs he'd briefly traversed when the house of lizard-lions offered roof and food. He'd been caught off-guard by the size of the crannogmen, Geralt had been as tall as Lord Marlow himself, and little Howland tended to shy away from the Winterfell host. The Twins, by comparison, had been both better and worse. Where there were no more endless colorless mires under grey skies, the Freys proved to be greyer in spirit where the crannogmen held warmth. He'd been forced to pay due respect to old Lord Walder Frey, every part the rat in man's skin, and had had to ward off half a dozen attempts at betrothals to their house between him, his siblings and half the northmen. A steady warning that he was to go to Casterly Rock made the frail lord hold his tongue.

The rest of the Riverlands had been better, and Riverrun had treated him well. Going there had been entertaining enough, though Catelyn Stark's persistent questions about her future husband had been rather trying. She was polite enough, and not without wit, perhaps she'd have enough fire to reign in Brandon, though he spoke nothing of that. Lysa was meeker and nice, but she stayed close to some minor lord's son, too small and jittery for Geralt to take note of. Lord Hoster was nice and hospitable, undoubtedly meaning to keep a good image to Rickard to ensure all would go well, though he seemed genuine in his attempts to keep the northmen well. Brynden had been the focus of his time, however, the Blackfish having many and more war stories of the Ninepenny Kings and the battles fought. Geralt had even gotten the chance to spar with him, one of the few men who'd defeated him at each of the practices. Even then, the grizzled veteran complimented his skills, particularly the use of a greatsword at his age.

After that, it was through the River Road they made it to the Golden Tooth and Ashemark after. Houses Lefford and Marbrand both proved to be hospitable, but tense nonetheless. As per Lord Rickard's strict instructions, Ser Rodrik had demanded bread and wine at the gates of each keep and refused to step in otherwise. Willingly or not, it was clear that the trust in the western lords was not as great as the faith in the Gods' punishment on those who would betray the guest right. The Leffords were a strict bunch, military in their lifestyle, though not as austere as the Mormonts. To Geralt's surprise, they were not prickly like he expected, being rather brusquely honest, not quite so different from the northmen's attitude. The Marbrands, by comparison, were a gallant lot. Lord Damon had dismissed Ser Rodrik's terseness and inquired of the North and its people, claiming it be an honor that House Stark would come to Ashemark. He told Geralt that he would meet his son at Casterly Rock, where Addam was squiring.

"What's Lord Tywin like, my lord?" He'd figured it was as good a time as any to put in practice propriety and learn more of the Great Lion. Lord Damon's posture straightened impeccably, and he raised his chin when he spoke. "He is a hard man, that much I'm sure you've heard. But as he is hard, he is just as well. He does not deal punishment to those who do not warrant it, and he is a man that rewards the subjects and allies who would hold his banners and defend the Westerlands loyally."

_Spoken like a true vassal House._ Geralt noted there wasn't fear in the lord's voice. He'd remembered his father's voice then. _The world of men is the world of stories. And in a world full of stories, only the best and the worst are remembered. Maegor Targaryen once helped crush the rebellion that murdered Lord Ronnel Arryn and hung all those involved for following a kinslayer. People hardly remember that, but they do remember how he mounted the Black Dread and burned septs, the Warrior's Sons and beheaded dozens of septons. The Rains of Castamere is the most important of the stories that mark Tywin Lannister, but that may not be all there is to his person. That makes him no softer, but you'll have the opportunity of meeting the man behind the tales, Geralt. Make the best of it._

True to Ser Rodrik's words, with the sun beginning to rest on the Sunset Sea, they found themselves at the foot of the mountain. Not far from them was Lannisport, little ways west of House Lannister's seat, already being lighted with torches and braziers. He could see more and more of the city the higher they galloped up the mountain leading to Casterly Rock. The strength of the wind reminded Geralt of Winterfell's own howling gales, but where the North held a cold bite, the southern gusts brought licks of the sea. The salt was thick so close to the coast, the air was thick and musky. The direwolf banners were waving rapidly, making faint claps as they approached the bridge's gates. Great lions carved from stone were at each side of the gate, one lying with a peaceful visage and the other stood snarling, each twenty feet tall. From the top of the gate, a soldier shouted, _"Who goes there?! State your name and intentions here!"_

"_WE HAIL FROM WINTERFELL, SER! WE BRING GERALT, SON OF LORD RICKARD STARK, AND THE CONTINGENT THAT ESCORTED HIM HERE!"_ Ser Rodrik's voice boomed, fighting against the wind that threatened to stop it from reaching the troop's ears. There was silence for a moment, then the gates opened. Inside, two dozen troops greeted them, the head of the lot marching towards them with a distrustful expression. Ser Rodrik moved forwards to greet him, stepping off his horse to properly face the southron. "Lord Tywin commanded we watch for a host with the Direwolf banners. He also ordered we make sure they're the true Stark bannermen."

"Of course, ser. Lord Rickard instructed we present proof of our identity." He fumbled a little with his coat, before procuring a letter and then a scroll. The letter he returned to his belongings, the scroll with the direwolf's seal he handed to the man. He looked at the wax seal carefully, bringing torchlight close to it and squinting his eyes. Once he was sure he saw correctly, he took it off and opened the scroll. He muttered under his breath, lips moving with the words on the parchment. His brows furrowed and he gave the group a final look. He didn't stop until he met Geralt's eyes. He nodded brusquely. "My men will lead your horses, Ser Rodrik, they'll be fed and sheltered until your departure. As for you all, you'll be followin' me."

"You have our sincere thanks, ser. I would ask your name, we of the North do not forget those hospitable to us." Geralt could see the leader struggling not to roll his eyes. "Captain Wyatt will do, Ser Rodrik, and I ain't no knight. His grace hasn't deemed me worthy of such a title yet like yourself."

"Very well then, captain, I would ask you to lead the way." Ser Rodrik remained immaculate in his manners through the captain's insolence, but Geralt could see his whiskers shaking. The Lannister soldiers went to the horses, the northmen dismounting and allowing them through the first gate. The bridge was long, but it seemed like a serpent's tongue before the Lion's Mouth. The monstrous cavern alone was two hundred feet high, dozens of great pointed stones at its ceiling and its floor making it seem as if some stony beast awaited its feeding. Fires within lit it up, and numerous guards wearing the snarling lion stood unmoving. _Casterly Rock is high, nearly thrice as tall as the Wall itself. But the Great Keep is larger. The only thing greater is Harrenhal, and that one's nothing but ruins. _

By the time they were inside the maw, a halfmoon had risen and was halfway to the peak of the starry skies. Geralt remembered few nights so full and bright, Winterfell's clouds obscuring the great black plain. It was a wonder in itself, and what little he had seen of the Great Lion's seat only raised the standard. The cavernous hall had multiple outings of equal appearances to its sides, holes of dark stone that led deeper within the mountain, illuminated by practically placed torches. _The way to the mines? Doesn't matter. We're here to meet House Lannister, not dig their gold for them._ It was a long walk, but they made it to where the dark stone gave way to carved and polished floors. The patterned floors were white and made for intricate patterns, and the walls and ceiling soon did the same. Crimson and gold began to mark the growing hall, weaving into intricate mosaics of lions and kings and armies and blood. Marble statues stood vigilante, men with lions' heads and great winged cats ready to attack those who entered. At the end of the hall behind the Lion's Mouth was another set of gates, and a man in a fancy crimson cloak awaited them there. The lion's head brooch stood out above his left breast.

His face was hard, with short golden hair threatening to recede. A short golden beard made his thick jaw even more imposing, with a thick body to back it. He was not a fat man, but there was a faint hint of roundness under his chin. His eyes were green, his posture solid and steady. _He's a Lannister to be sure, but he's not Tywin, not if father hasn't lied and if his liege lords are to be believed. _As Ser Rodrik did, Geralt bowed before the man, a gesture he returned smoothly. He turned to the two at the front. "Ser Rodrik and Geralt Stark, on behalf of House Lannister, I welcome you to Casterly Rock. I am Ser Kevan Lannister. My brother Lord Tywin awaits you in the Great Hall, as does the rest of our House. I will walk you there. Your soldiers are welcome to eat and rest with our own at their barracks."

"My thanks, Ser Kevan, we are honored to be welcomed so well by Lord Tywin." Ser Rodrik's answer was deep and gracious, which earned him a nod from Kevan. "He has been attentive of your journey, ser, ensured that your arrival would be fast and safe."

"Then we honor him little by wasting his time. If you would take us, we'd be grateful." That had been the first time he'd spoken since the morning, and it brought the blonde's attention to him. The stained green eyes looked him up and down with scrutiny, and in turn Geralt remained still and serene, if with a hard look in his eyes. _I'm not here to threaten anyone, ser, but I don't mean to scare like some lost orphan._ "Very true. Captain, see to our guests' quarters. Ser Rodrik, Geralt Stark, follow me."

The captain bowed deeply and gestured to the soldiers. Geralt felt a small measure of comfort Ser Rodrik would be accompanying him, though he hoped his honor wouldn't prickle their hosts' moods. _I'm surprised Lord Tywin would even seat Ser Rodrik on his table. House Cassel is very small compared to other vassal houses, and men's standings are of importance with Tywin. _Geralt stood tall and proud as he followed Ser Kevan closely, steeling his nerves and making ice of his face. _I've killed before, fought against a wildling lot and slayed a snow bear. Dinner won't be the death of me._ And through another pair of oak doors, they entered a hall that mirrored the Great Keep's own dining hall. But where Winterfell was white and grey with ironwood and oak in its tables, the Lannisters' hall was filled with gold and crimson tablecloths, red candles and lions' heads on the walls. It was large, great enough to feed men by the score. Many were already in their drinks, but their food was whole and their plates untouched. With the opened doors, the hall was consumed by silence and all turned to the three.

Geralt's face remained calm and from the corner of his gaze, he could see Rodrik fighting the urge to tug at his whiskers. To his left and right were sets of tables, but the center gave for a clear way to the head, where marble steps elevated the table at its end above all others. Where the seat of the Starks was horizontal, well distributed to face the guests, the Lannisters' was vertical. He could see some faces closer to others, but he could imagine that farthest from them all was the head of the table. _And there's only one man who would sit there._ Kevan began walking and the two northmen followed behind. Geralt lazily looked at the soldiers dining, most of them giving dissecting gazes, at their furs and leathers and boots. While not all were of such coloring, he found that the closer he got, the greater number of blonde heads sat at the table, ranging from dry hay to polished gold. At the other end of the table, left unseated, he found himself under scrutiny of two dozen sets of eyes. The table was long enough that there be distance between them, but where he had felt doubt when he first saw Kevan, there was no doubt in the intensity of the head's expression.

"Lord Tywin, I would present to you and House Lannister Geralt Stark of Winterfell and Ser Rodrik Cassel, his handpicked escort." Rodrik bowed so fast Geralt thought the man had fainted. He could hear silent chuckles from the table at that, and he made a note of remembering who laughed. He in turn, looked directly at Lord Tywin. Meeting eyes that spoke of indominable will, he gave a slower bow, his look returning adamantly at the Lord's visage when he stood straight once more. Even from farther away, certain features already stood out. His eyes were green as his brother's, but the torchlight made it seem as if shards of gold were hidden beneath their surface. His face was longer, his nose pristine and elegant. He wasn't as wideset as Ser Kevan, but then he didn't have a trace of fat on his face. His hair was combed back, and while time had thinned it, remained as a short, golden mane of leonine nature. His robes were more elegant than Kevan's, that did not surprise him. But where Kevan's brooch was of a calm lion's head, Tywin's was roaring. _It's my turn to speak, then._

"Lord Tywin, on behalf of House Stark, we are grateful for the open doors with which you greeted us. On my word as a Stark, I'll ensure my stay is of no burden to you, and by the time of my leave, see to it that the North and the Westerlands have a closer standing in the Seven Kingdoms." He'd been given those lines by his father, and forced to practice them each night with Ser Rodrik. _I know them damn near better than the Stark words._ His voice didn't break and his face didn't falter. There was more silence on the table, which no doubt wouldn't be broken until his stare-off with Tywin ended. Even as calm as his expression was, there was an undoubtable weight to it, a presence to his character that was made known in spite of his silence. There was a brief flicker in his eyes before he nodded. "You may sit."

_He already sent his brother to welcome us, he won't do it twice._ It was fair, he thought, though most others would expect to be honored again. Ser Kevan gestured and the two followed, Geralt barely having enough time to catch a glance here and there at the faces by the table. They were closer, much closer now to the lion lord, but the empty chairs designated for them were still a few ways away. Tywin sat at the head, and to his right, Kevan took his seat. To his left, a boy in Lannister robes with a long mane of hair locked eyes with him. It didn't take long for Geralt to find out he was the lord's firstborn. To _his_ left was a girl with much longer hair braided intricately with gold braids and rubies to match her dress. They had the same eyes, and everything else was more similar than his liking. _So those are the twins Jaime and Cersei._ The boy flashed a snobby half-smirk while the girl held her chin high, not even deigning him worth looking at. _Didn't they have a dwarf brother?_

Left of them were three more, a boy with rowdier hair and mischievous smile. One of the girls looked haughty while the other held a more serene expression. Even the boy, whom he assumed to be a cousin of the twins, that was the ugliest of the six Lannister children, was still prettier than half the girls in Westeros. To Kevan's right were three more figures, these adults. Where Kevan looked to be second on everything that Tywin was, the man to his right held a more unique look. He shared Tywin's nose, but his eyes were a darker green, with a short beard and a severe gaze. His thick brows were furrowed and his hair was kept short. Where Kevan's beard hid hints of stoutness, this one attempted to hide a much stronger jaw. He looked younger, but somehow his grizzly features complimented the elegance of his Lannister blood.

Next to him, the youngest of the adults looked to be his opposite, though strangely the one who held the most and least resemblance to Tywin. His hair was long and mostly combed impeccably to the right. His jaw was lean and his face was elegant and his eyes had green flecked with gold as well. But where Tywin held a severity to his face and presence, this one resembled the opposite. His features gave way to an easy smile, not the likes of which Jaime had offered, but the ones that tended to infect those closely surrounding the person. He was leaner than the bold man to his right, but he looked to be very fit as well. He was, like Tywin, beardless, allowing him to see his well-defined jaw.

Finally, there was a woman to his right. She was curvy with hints of plumpness, and her crimson dress helped to highlight that. Her hair was kept long and in an elegant southron braid, and her brows curved. Her lips were dark red, almost the color of blood. Weaves in her hair were silver rather than gold, and sharp green eyes matched the emeralds intricately placed in it. She, along with the man to her left, were the only two Lannisters with openly welcoming expressions to the two, but Geralt could tell the woman was a lioness just as well as her brothers. _Remember Geralt, Tywin is the Lord of Casterly Rock, but he is not alone. Just as you have three brothers and one sister, he has the same, as well as good-brothers. I know not enough of their like to tell you how they act, save for Kevan, his likeminded right-hand man. You answer directly to Tywin, but make sure to act just as properly around them. After all, if you earn a betrothal, it will be from one of their daughters._

His seat was next to the youngest of the girls whereas Rodrik's was next to the curvy woman's, leaving Geralt to frown and go back the long way around. _And one more thing, Geralt, if you're asked to dance, you dance. If I hear word that you refuse to do so, I swear I'll send you right away to the Wall. I'll use a hundred men if that's what it takes._ By the time he made it to the other way back, he was able to get a better look at his neighbors. The rowdy boy had a pug nose and a big chin, and his eyes were green stained with hazel. The girls Geralt assumed to be his sisters were fairer by comparison. Where Cersei was undoubtedly the most beautiful, with heigh cheekbones and long golden locks held mostly freely, the two looked to be near as pretty.

The one by the boy was shorter than her sister, though she seemed older. Her expression was peaceful and welcoming, her eyes big, stained emeralds that looked at him curiously. Her face was rounder than Cersei's and her sister's though not undefined and certainly not fat. She seemed to be ridding herself of the childish roundness and looked to be of an age with Lyanna. Her hair was long and straight, color between hay and gold. Her sister was skinnier, her hair had dark roots like their brother's, her glare mean and suspicious. Her brows curved like the woman's, and her eyes seemed between green and blue. Her lips were skinnier than her sisters, but even with her childish roundness, looked like she would make for a beauty of finesse. The only thing marring her features was her frown.

To the right of his seat, there was a boy his age, with copper hair and dark blue eyes. For a moment he would have confused him for a darker-haired Tully, but the flaming tree on his breast immediately quelled his doubts. _So this is Addam Marbrand. _He offered a smile, and he nodded in return. The two looked awkwardly at one another, while he could see the girl to his left rolling her eyes. Geralt suppressed a sigh and took his seat between them. With him seated, Kevan raised a cup of wine. The table focused on the two northmen and did the same. Geralt looked for his own, grabbing it and raising it at them. _They toast at the beginning of feasts in the south?_ That was the second time Tywin spoke. "May your time here be fruitful, Geralt Stark. The Rock has no room for more boys, you shall find your manhood here. Ser Rodrik, be sure to send Lord Rickard my regards."

"Of course, my lord." He bowed his head deeply, prompting the lady to his side to laugh. The toast was silent and the food was served soon after. Honeyed pork, duck liver and fresh poms and berries made up the platters in front of him, along with a dozen more extravagant plates Geralt couldn't name. It tasted good, and Geralt mentally timed himself as to not wolf it down the way he had through the journey. He briefly looked to his left, to find the blonde, likely of an age with Benjen, to disgustedly scoff at him and focus on her food. He raised a brow briefly at that, but figured the more he cared for that, the worse he was off. _If I'll be the mutt of Casterly Rock for the next few years, so be it. I can still stand taller than half the lions here._ "What's the North like?"

He looked to his right, finding the ginger boy in between bites and looking at him inquisitively. There was a brief silence between them as the redhead swallowed the bite of duck he'd taken. "I was just wondering what it was like to live so far in the North. I've only heard tales of old from my father and our Maester, and of brief stories of Others and grumpkins and snarks, so I wanted to ask you what it was like."

"The North's cold, colder than any of these Southron parts." Addam looked at him, mouth sealed tightly as he conjured what to say. Geralt refrained from frowning. _I can't afford to give dry answers here. They may take it as a slight._ "…It's also beautiful, in its own way. The South has the sun for longer times, and the nights are only half as harsh. But where the South has hills and lions and coasts, the North has thriving forests, with great packs of wolves and a coat of snow for every bit of land there is."

"And frosty men to guard their frozen hearths and icy castles. Not the strongest forces to march south, but almost certainly impenetrable to those who intend to invade the winterlands." He looked in front of him and to his left to find the curvy, blonde lady speaking. She looked as far from a halfwit as a dragon from a rat, and her smile curved upwards as she spoke. "My name is Genna Lannister, young Stark, I am Lord Tywin's younger sister. To my right is Gerion, the youngest of our pride, and to _his_ right is Tygett, the fourth child our father produced. To his right is Kevan, whom you've already met, and at the head of the table, well, I needn't explain who sits there."

"Ah, my greatest accomplishment, sweet sister. To be the brother of Tywin Lannister, the Great Lion. I'm of little interest next to him, I'm afraid." Gerion answered. It was strange. Where he looked to have the most of Tywin's like, he was also the one who felt the least like Tywin. His eyes were no less sharp, but his generous smiles did not seem to be a farce. Genna in turn laughed heartily at her younger brother's quips, but Tygett seemed to frown further. "We're in front of guests, Gerion. Behave the part of the lord. You're a Lannister, you ought to stand as tall."

"Rather hard to do next to a giant like our eldest brother, Tyg. I rather like my shortness, it helps me meet all those beneath the lion's shadows. There's only one lion for every hundred dogs, and one dog for every hundred hares. Imagine how little we know of the people in our lands if we stick only to our own." Tygett's frown became severe, but Gerion's smile reached his eyes. He leaned forwards on the table, looking beyond the right of his sister. "Ser Rodrik! Lord Geralt! I trust your ride here was fast and mellow, was it not? I rather doubt it would look good on our name to deliver our guests to our doors in any way short of splendidly. Did your horses treat you well?"

"They did, Ser Gerion, many thanks for your concern. Our steeds rode well through the North, the Riverlands and the Westerlands. We have no source of misgivings." Ser Rodrik bobbed his head up and down, giving the man his words humbly. Gerion laughed at that, enough to bring the attention of those immediately by him. "I should hope so, Ser Rodrik. And I'm afraid to tell you, I'm no Ser. You'll find that my brothers all share that title, I'm rather lacking when it comes to the joys of knighthood. And I can only imagine what your ride was like and pray you tell the truth. I can't imagine a journey from one corner of Westeros to another on a blistered arse."

Genna laughed, and for all of Tygett's frowns, he seemed to be fighting a smile threatening to ruin his fearsome visage. The Lannister children laughed, and Addam joined as well. _And here I thought every man in the south was born with a golden spoon up his ass. _The boy next to Lord Tywin spoke up, finally bringing the upper end of the table to the talks. "Aye, uncle Gerion. Even worse when you know so little of the Westerlands, coming from so far away. One can only imagine how a poor, thirdborn of a wolf would manage his way down south. Far from the North, far from his caves, it's a wonder he doesn't cower–"

"Jaime." It was all the lord needed to say for the boy to fall silent. The table followed soon after. Tywin almost looked like he paid the comment no mind, putting more focus on the plate in front of him, but Jaime seemed to hold his breath the moment his father spoke his name. Geralt clenched his jaw. In Winterfell, he'd have no misgivings over breaking the nose of someone who meant to mock him freely, but he'd be surprised if he didn't lose his hand if he raised a fist to the heir. _So this is what my father warned me of. All games and no honest words. I'll play, if that's what it takes. _"_Direwolves_ get tired of chasing the same prey, my lord. We figured we could learn from our lion neighbors what more we could hunt. We just so happen to be cursed with endless hunger."

Ser Rodrik was red-faced and afraid. Gerion coughed, but Geralt could see how poorly his fist covered his smile. Genna raised a brow, and he could see hidden approval in the lady's eyes. The girl to his left looked at him intently, as did her sister, her brother, and the twins. Jaime was especially scrutinous with his glare. Tygett and Kevan sat straight and serious, and Tywin raised his eyes from his plate to look at him. Of all the eyes on the table, it was the lord's that were undoubtedly the hardest that bore on him. Geralt didn't flinch, even with the intensity of Tywin's gaze. _If I falter now, I may as well roll over. I've insulted no one, but that doesn't stop me from taking a stand._ It was long, or rather, it felt long. Then he spoke, "There's little to learn, for those who have no ears to listen. If you mean to play the part of the wolf, Stark, then you best not stray behind, and listen well. Those who don't fall alone, and any man who calls himself a wolf cannot balk when he must subdue goats and jackals."

"Direwolves don't, my lord, and neither do I." _Direwolf, not a wolf. We are the kings of the North, not their weaker ilk._ The comment had certainly not gone over the lord's head. The girls to his left looked at him wide-eyed, and their brother was not much better. The other girl, Cersei, held a half-smirk, and Jaime squinted his eyes at him. Gerion was no longer laughing, but held open surprise in his expression. Genna, Tygett and Kevan were more controlled, but seemed to feel the same from his answer. Only Tywin's face hadn't change, not even a flicker in his eyes. Silence settled a little while longer, a presence only he had the power to break. "Then you will heed and listen. You'll learn in Casterly Rock what lesser men dare not teach their sons of the way of lords and men, of rule and execution. Few like to understand the nature of men, and blind trust is unacceptable in this house."

"I understand, my lord." Geralt never backed from the gaze, but he was out of ideas on what to retort with to the man. There was nothing in the lord's voice that wasn't intentional, no word that wasn't measured. _I can't fight against him and win, not in this, but I can concede victory while standing tall._ It was exhausting for Geralt, the thought of mentally preparing himself for every one of the Lannisters without faltering, but then it had been what he had chosen. It was his struggle, and he'd stick by it. _Standing tall as a Northman in House Lannister won't be easy, but it's not the worst. I'm not living by a battlefield, warding off demons of the night. _And for all of Tywin's might that Geralt could see in his short time there, nothing compared to the gaze of the silvery hawk of his dreams. Tywin returned his gaze to his plate, and the table birthed conversation once more. That was the time he heard the boy, brother of the two girls, speak. "You've got balls, Stark! Most grown men piss themselves speaking to uncle Lord Tywin."

He was louder than Jaime, but seemed to conceal his voice from the lord, who now looked uninterested from the table again. His sister levelled a glare at Daven, and looked at Geralt with the serenity she held before. "My brother Daven is not one with an intricate tongue, he rather speaks his mind freely, so you'll have to forgive him that. However, I admit that he's not wrong. Our uncle, Lord Tywin, is a hard man, a strong man. Lesser men would sooner sit with the soldiers and dogs if it keeps them from his sight. Most children try not to cower, and few of them succeed. Addam managed that, but I don't believe he answered lord Tywin as you did."

"A comment of poor state, Myrielle. Addam did very well when he was first sent here by Lord Damon, and all he's done since then is improve. And my brother has no intention of terrifying children and sending men away to dogs. If he did, you'd very well know he meant to do so. It's his presence that precedes him, and he's a man who plays no games. He _is _the head of House Lannister." Genna spoke again, and Myrielle pouted, offering a silent _'sorry'_ to Addam, who shrugged it off. Finally, the youngest of the bunch smoke, dark eyes looking at him with a snide smile. "Not like that would be a problem for this one. Mutts and wolves and dogs are much the same in the lion's court."

"_Cerenna, behave._ Your father would be remiss to hear his daughter has acted so coldly to our new guest. Surely Stafford would be _aghast_ to know how little his youngest cares for the rules his good-brother upholds so strictly, especially with all Tywin's done for him." Cerenna paled and immediately dug into her food, averting her eyes from her peers. Genna held a shrewd half-smile, and Gerion looked on with an open grin. He wasn't as obvious as Ser Rodrik, but Geralt found himself to be equally confused. _Stand your ground._ "No, she's right, my lady. I have no problem eating with dogs, I like their honesty better than most. The problem is I tend to scare them away. Direwolves have a knack for doing so."

"Ah, the _direwolf_ has fangs and claws as well, doesn't it? Shame they were born with no manes, they lack the crowns befit for kings." Gerion smiled, and Geralt mimicked him. "Direwolves don't need crowns for others to know who's king."

"_Ha!_ This one's definitely got guts, sweet sister. Best not show them off too often, lad, lions don't much like threats, but I'm sure you'll do fine. I look forwards to your stay, Geralt Stark, we could do with a bit of the northman's ice around these parts. I hope you don't melt come summer, I hear even our coolest winters are warmer than summer in Winterfell." Geralt half nodded at that. "Well, our snowfalls are softer in the summer."

"Seven hells, it's a wonder you people live! When people ask my why I believe in the Seven, I tell them it takes a miracle from the Father to make a Northman lay his wife through seven coats of fur." His voice lowered at that, but it was still loud enough for Tygett to scoff. Daven laughed long and hard, Myrielle had the decency of using her hands to cover her smile while Cerenna never gave the effort. Ser Rodrik was red-faced, and Genna slapped Gerion's arm with a red handkerchief. Geralt himself chuckled, finding the youngest of Tywin's ilk to be very entertaining. _Unless he kills by garnering the trust of others, he seems to be the best of this lot._ "We manage, my lord. Springs and fires make for good bedfellows."

"I should hope so. Men must have some ways of keeping warm, lest they remain frozen inside their wives." When Genna meant to slap his arm, he caught her hand and kissed the ring on her finger, prompting the lady to roll her eyes. It wasn't until the older brother growled that their attention turned to him. "Gerion, _enough._ You've had your chance to speak and make japes, but you will _not_ sully the Lannister name with more crass words. Much less when we have _guests _at our table, so _mind your tongue._"

"Tyg, dear brother, I apologize to you from the bottom of my heart. If it's my silence you seek, then you shall have it. But a table should not be bereft of laughter, and our own guests are not deprived of humor as most in our lands would expect the 'dour Northmen' to lack. And nothing's half so dangerous as the unbearable silence of a table that fears conversation. We are mere men, you and I, as are they. It's good to remember where we all stand, and that those who see themselves reaching for the skies are rarely ever taller than their grounded neighbors. Lion or direwolf, we are much the same." And therein lied the sharpness of the youngest. True to Geralt's guess, Gerion was far from a fool and oaf. There was even strength in his voice when he turned towards his older brother, who only seemed to grow and look more imposing. "We are _not_ mere men, and neither are they. We are lords, rulers of the West and the North. On our shoulders lie the lives of thousands, of men, women and children. And if we are to be privileged with such power, we ought to act deserving of it, you best remember that, _dear brother."_

"Oh please, enough of this. Gerion may have his japes, Tygett, just as you have your intense passion. It does little good to squabble more in front of our guests, so perhaps we could manage to show the better side of ourselves to them. Now, enough of our talks, Geralt will have more than enough time to learn our ways and meet us each. If anything, we should follow young Addam's lead. Tell us about Lord Rickard, Ser Rodrik, of the Umbers and the Karstarks, the Boltons and the Manderlys. We hear plenty of stories here, but many of them are little more reliable than tales of grumpkins and snarks. If you would honor this lady, as the proper knight that you are, then tell us these stories and tell them true." Genna's arm lingered on Ser Rodrik's shoulder, a savvy and inviting smile on her face. Geralt could see his face flush again. _This time he looks more the boy taking a lord's daughter to dance. _And Ser Rodrik spoke louder, while his wine made his tongue looser. For every story he'd tell, the table turned to Geralt for confirmation. All he would do was nod, with the occasional comment adding or correcting the story.

The night was long, the feast splendorous and extravagant. It did not take him long to see that Genna oversaw each conversation, measured each person. With her close involvement, no other tensions erupted that night. Where Ser Rodrik's stories ended, Ser Stafford's children spoke to Geralt, asking for more and proving to be hungry for fresh tales. Myrielle was the kindest among them, keeping the peace amongst the children as Genna did with the adults. She smiled prettily at him more often than not, though Geralt suspected she compensated for her sister's brashness. Cerenna did not attempt to insult him as openly as she had before, but she made sure her compliments were barbed. Geralt humored her, or rather himself, when he took her poison with a smile and spun her taunts into praises. That left her contemplative, trying to beat him in her game of mental cyvasse of trying to undermine him. He actually found it rather entertaining after long enough, and eventually Myrielle grew tired of apologizing on her behalf when she learned he didn't mind.

Daven was the farthest one of the group, but the loudest to match. He tried to converse with Geralt of fighting styles and battles and swords, roping Addam along for the conversation. They spoke of training with Jaime, whom they vouched for being the best swordsman of their age. _Either they're forced to lick his ass for being Tywin's son, or he's worth his lot. Either ways, I can't tell if winning a spar against him will do me any good here._ The plates were emptied when the moon reached its peak, and Tywin stood up. He gave a final look at the table, stopping briefly to look at the other Northman. "Ser Rodrik, Gerion shall escort you to your chambers. Ser Tygett will take you to your men on the morrow so you can tend to them."

"Many thanks, my lord, I swear they'll not give cause for worry." He bowed deeply, sobering his attitude the moment the Great Lion gave his commands. Tygett gave a brief nod, brows still furrowed, while Gerion clasped the man on the shoulder and led him away. As the adults left, Genna herding most of the children away, Tywin's look kept Geralt where he was. "Jaime, you'll see Geralt to his own quarters. Guide him so he knows where they are, where he'll find the places where he'll perform the responsibilities assigned to him."

"Yes, father." Jaime responded, still looking to Tywin before turning to Geralt. Geralt gave a brief bow, but said nothing more. _I've spoken my gratitude and Ser Rodrik thrice so. The last thing a man like him wants is a blind boot licker. _Tywin gave an almost imperceptible nod, spun on his heels and walked away, deep into an elegant hall. Geralt and Jaime shared a look, both sharing the same tension. The latter rolled his eyes. "Best get going, no man is ever so worthy to delay my father's orders."

"Lead the way, then." Jaime gave him a half smile. "Then follow fast and try not to get lost. More doors than not lead to the bowels of Casterly Rock. I can't say I remember perfectly, but I do believe some of the dungeons hold a few hungry lions."

"I wouldn't half mind carving myself a lion pelt, so do as you will." Geralt replied. Jaime's eyes flickered in the candlelight, servants now populating the hall and removing the empty plates. His eyes lowered, turning to Geralt's hip. "Is that your sword? I suppose you didn't have the time to pack it with your belongings, you'd kept us waiting long enough for your arrival. Tell me, Geralt, in the North, do you train with wooden swords or do you actually use steel?"

"If you want to spar, you can find out then." Jaime laughed, a twinkle in his eyes. "For a savage from the North, Stark, you've got wits. I expected an oaf to come here, eating with his hands and bedding the girls in his mind. Might just be that you can survive here, if you know how to hold your silence better. A man once japed at my father's expense, my uncles told me, and that man left red-faced, near pissing his britches without a single word from him. Men have lost their tongues for less."

"I speak when spoken to, Lannister, and I don't jape. And you like to speak of steel over wood, but have you ever spilled blood, ever felt the rush of battle?" He got close as he asked, a mere few feet from the other boy. Jaime smiled, but he could see his eyes barely flinch. "Not yet, I'm afraid. Soon enough, though, I rather find myself bored of besting our Master-at-arms. It's been long since I last got struck with a sword."

"Aye, you don't look like you've seen a real fight. When you take your first man, then we'll speak of blows." Jaime's smile withered then, his face cold and serious. "I'll show you to your room, Geralt, it's late enough as it is. Remember the way well, it's the only time I'll do so."

"By all means, show me." Jaime turned on his heels and walked fast, and Geralt kept the pace. Not another word was spoken between the two, the tense silence keeping a fair few feet of distance between them. Coming around a corner, going through more grandiose hallways and climbing the steps of a large tower, one final corridor led to a door at the end. For a moment, a genuine smile came on Jaime's face. "Daven's your neighbor to the right, so good luck sleeping. He snores like a damn bear."

"I'll take your word for it. I'll see you around, Lannister." Geralt spoke. He mulled it over his mind briefly and bit the sides of his cheeks. He thought of his father and his words. _Fuck, I don't want to make enemies on my first day._ He offered a hand to the blonde, who looked at it curiously before laughing loudly. He turned around and walked away, calling back to him. "Don't mistake my courtesies for a sign of friendship, Stark. Lions and direwolves make for poor bedfellows, and there's not a damn thing that's interesting about some frozen boy sent from the North. My lord father won't accept any foolishness from us, much less from _you,_ so I'm forbidden from speaking my mind. All that I find that would make you worthwhile might be that greatsword at your hip, but then what's a boy doing with a man's sword? I'll see you around, Stark. I'll be wagering to see how long you last before you beg to go back to Winterfell."

He swaggered out of the hall, and Geralt held back a growl from the back of his throat. He took a deep breath and let go of his anger. _Little blond cunt._ He shook his head and opened his door. He could see an elegant bed on the inside, along with a window giving way to howling wind. Incenses kept the room from being overtaken by the sea's salt, and he could see the packs of his clothes and materials had been placed there already. Removing Wolf's Claw, still in its sheath, he placed it against the wall standing. Turning around to close himself in, he saw one of the other rooms had its door slightly open. Stepping out to look closer, he saw a single green eye, perhaps at the height of his waist, looking at him. He heard a faint little gasp and the door closed. Geralt sighed, closing his own and getting into his new bed. He shuffled a little beneath the sheets, not used to a resting place so soft. _Well, if nothing else, I've survived my first encounter._

**Author's Notes: And there we go. Someone was mentioning that "Jaime will be a good friendship shoe in for Geralt" in the reviews along with another that just kept saying "Geralt and Lyanna are selfish". These are twelve-to thirteen year-olds, they're barely just starting their teens, _of course they're selfish._ They're also prone to being irresponsible and bratty, that's the point. They're not adults yet in a society where adulthood was cemented at _fifteen_ years of age. They're gonna fuck up, and they're gonna fuck up for a good long while. Hell, in the world we live in now, you could easily fuck up big time when you're in your _twenties_, life isn't simple and clear-cut. So when I write Jaime & others acting like little shits, this does not make this a bashing-fic, it's just kids/teens being kids/teens.**

**Now, as for this chapter, it was very fun to write in general. Casterly Rock is more or less explored in fanfic given the lack of it in the books. Moreover, Tywin has _four_ siblings, where the show only put Kevan in. These are worthwhile figures and deserve a place in the story. Only problem is writing Tywin himself, given his status of being one of the most ruthlessly intelligent leaders in the whole world. For his dialogue, I'm gonna have to take a page out of Machiavelli's mind and give it a drier delivery. Next chapter I'll put in the "casting" for all the worthwhile figures shown in this chapter. Anyways, hope you've enjoyed! Comment on what you liked and what you didn't, all constructive criticism is welcome.**

**The Almighty Afroduck,**

**All Hail**


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